


To Life, Gentle Hawthorn

by MDJensen



Series: Winter, Late in Leaving: the series [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis is not okay, Athos isn't either, Gen, Post-Savoy, Pre-Series, but they're actively trying to be, specific tw's at the beginning of each chapter, tw: alcohol dependency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-02-24 15:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2586308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis and Athos are taken hostage; somehow, that's the easy part. Sequel to <i>Winter, Late in Leaving</i>, but you don't need to have read that first. Set a few months after the massacre at Savoy, early in the boys' friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> It feels SO DAMN GOOD to finally be posting this. I started work on it soon after finishing _Winter, Late in Leaving_ , and I've been plugging away at it ever since. Truly hoping that you all enjoy :)
> 
> Poem which inspired the title and which appears in chapter two is by Pierre de Ronsard and was translated into English by William Hawley. French can be found here: http:// williamhawley.net/ scorepages /ronsard/ 2belaubepintxt.htm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: vomit [off-screen]

Twenty-five.

Fuck.

He wasn't vain, honestly.

Nor terribly prone to self-pity.

But-- _twenty-five_.

At twenty-five years of age, Aramis had no wife, no children, no money; all he owned was some guns, some swords, some clothes, and some books. And a hat, of course. His mother still lived, for which he was grateful, but she was half a country away. As was his brother. As were his sisters and nieces and nephews.

And this was all without mention of-- well.

He did have friends, though. Two of them, in fact. His twenty-fourth birthday had been nothing more than him and Marsac; they'd gotten blindingly drunk, played chess in the street. Gone to bed by midnight, too poor to afford working girls and too messy to attract any other ones. Just him and Marsac.

More than half of the garrison had attended Porthos' birthday a couple of months ago. Not that it was a competition.

Two friends with him was twice as many as he'd had last year, after all. Athos had given him an unexpectedly ornate book of poetry, and Porthos had given him a satchel for his surgical things and a massive hug, and now they were drinking profusely at Aramis' own apartment. It was marvelous, really. Now Aramis thought he'd like to move their little party to a tavern sometime soon, perhaps attract a bit of female company to wish him well; he was fairly certain he'd have to be sick a couple of times before he was fit to walk anywhere, but that was all right, small sacrifices had to be made--

“ _Aramis_.”

Porthos' voice had the tone of a man who'd had to repeat himself one too many times.

Aramis blinked. The world spun a bit, then settled.

“What?”

“Are you all right?”

A question.

He was supposed to answer it.

“I'm fine.”

Porthos was unconvinced. “You're thinkin'. You've got that face on. What is it?”

Another question. Jesus.

“I'm drunk,” Aramis replied.

“You're drunk, and thinkin'.”

“I was thinking,” Aramis said carefully, “that if I were in the position of not knowing my age-- such as you are, _mon ami_ \-- I would subtract a few years from my realistic estimation.”

“That so?”

“Truly. You are, at your own best guess, twenty-six or twenty-seven, yes?”

Porthos grunted.

“Well then, I would subtract five and call it a day. Present yourself as twenty-one or twenty-two.”

Porthos grinned, which made Aramis grin back.

“Don't think I could pass for twenty-one.”

“Nonsense. Athos, what do you think?”

Athos raised his head mournfully. “I think that one cannot lie to God, nor to the natural decay of the organs. Therefore, lying about it at all seems rather useless.”

“That is-- eminently logical,” Aramis choked out, not sure if Athos' statement had brought him near to laughter or near to tears. “Thank you for that, dear Athos. Cheers.” He reached out with his cup of wine and clinked it sloppily against Athos' own, then sat back, panting with the effort. “Do not forget, your organs are at least a couple of years more decayed than my own.”

“Tonight'll help you catch up,” Porthos added helpfully.

“I shall make sure to return such cheerful sentiments at your own birthday,” Aramis forged on. Athos smiled suddenly, and for the life of him Aramis didn't know if he'd just been the butt of a joke or not.

“Are you making fun of me, _ami_?” he questioning, squinting at Athos, hoping he looked appropriately accusatory.

“You don't do much to preclude it,” Athos replied. There was honest-to-Christ mischief in his eyes.

“I? When have I ever been less than the picture of decorum?” He stood to bow--

And then a few things happened at the same time.

Aramis bowed.

The table tipped.

The wine found Athos' lap with a splash and a yelp.

And then Porthos was pulling him out into the street, preventing him from divesting himself of his stomach contents right onto his own damn floor.

*

His head hurt. Waking up, Aramis knew that he could have expected nothing else.

What he hadn't quite expected was to find himself wrapped up warm and snug in his bed-- though he probably should have. Porthos was a saint on Earth. He'd deny it, conceal it beneath his stubborn layers of gruffness and debauchery, but he was the kind of man who'd tuck his drunken friend neatly into bed without a second thought.

Groaning, Aramis sat to scan the room for his wayward savior. This earned him a noise of groggy displeasure from his bed partner; Athos kicked vaguely at Aramis' legs and didn't open his eyes. Porthos was sitting at the table, reading by the morning light.

Aramis sighed, settling back down. He was old, and he was prodigiously hungover, but his friends were both with him.

And, he was _alive._

Funny how that became something that you had to remind yourself about. Funny how there were moments when it was all you could think about-- _I'm alive, I'm the_ only one _alive--_ and then at other times, it was a half-forgotten concept.

Marsac had saved his life. Saved his goddamn life. It was Porthos who'd helped him come to that realization, had sat with him calmly as it hit him like a brick. He'd wept a bit, carried on with life, then woken up that night and wept a _lot_. T ears which were sad but not angry. Which were, unexpectedly, grateful.

He'd be grateful now. Grateful to have reached twenty-five, when it had been far from a sure thing. Nobody was ever guaranteed their next birthday. And a musketeer, especially not.

That was all he needed, honestly: friends beside him, and a pulse in his heart. Aramis curled up against Athos contentedly. Maybe he needed a few more hours of sleep, as well. That couldn't hurt.

He didn't seem likely to get it. Porthos had noticed his movements and put his book down. “Good,” he proclaimed, loudly, “Didn't wanna have to wake you.”

“Is it time to get up?”

“Past time, I'd say. 's that one up too?”

Aramis nudged Athos' arm and shook his head when those pale eyes stayed closed. Porthos sighed. He came to the side of the bed-- and with no warning whatsoever, ripped the blankets away.

The noise that Athos made was one of helpless, childlike distress. Porthos chuckled as he remembered what Aramis was only just noticing: Athos was wearing nothing but his smallclothes and shirt.

Ah yes: the wine. Oops.

“Cold light of morning,” Porthos announced cheerfully. Aramis shivered. He shifted closer to the warmth of Athos' body, until the very moment that Athos, remembering himself, shot upright. His pained expression gave way to a neutral one almost instantly. Moving with the sort of grace that shouldn't have been allowed at such an hour, he slid from the bed and reclaimed his discarded clothes.

The whole bed his now, Aramis stretched. His hangover immediately reminded him of its presence, however, and he curled up in a hapless little ball.

Slowly he became aware that Porthos and Athos were both staring down at him. Athos was dressed and bore an expression of slight irritation; Porthos looked more sympathetic, but no more willing to accommodate. “We need to go, Aramis,” he said firmly.

“Mm.”

“Don't you think twenty-five's old enough to get yourself outta bed?”

“Is it?” Aramis sighed.

He got up, of course. The walk to the garrison was less than enjoyable, though; twice Aramis stopped and gripped at his belly, waiting to be sick. He never was. Porthos ushered him along with a gentle hand, Athos close behind. He should have been used to it by now, honestly. His stomach hadn't felt right since-- well.

At least time this he'd had some say in the cause of it.

Treville called them up the moment they arrived; Aramis tried not to grip too tightly to the railing as he ascended, laughing to himself at his own absurdity. Treville favored him with an inquisitive glance, but forged on without comment.

They had orders. Of course they did. No reason the universe should stop and give him the day off, let him sleep off his headache in the armory doing a hypothetical musket inventory.

It wasn't that he was ungrateful, truly. It had taken nearly a month for Treville to let him back into the garrison-- officially; he'd hung around plenty-- and another after that to send him on any real errands at all. It was a mercy not to be _bored_. In fact, a ride into the country-- some time in the fresh air-- might do him some good. Delivering letters was an easy task to be sure.

Until: “I don't need three of you on this,” Treville continued, almost offhandedly. Aramis' stomach flopped massively. “Porthos, a few of the new men could use some hand-to-hand training. It would serve better for you to stay and see to that.”

The captain considered the conversation over; Aramis could see that clearly on his face. But Christ, what did his own face look like?

No Porthos.

The first errand they'd been given apart from one another since he'd been reinstated. The first time, honestly, that they'd be apart for any significant length since-- well. Since Porthos had all but carried him out of that damnable forest, saved his life in a month-long montage of gruffly fraternal affection.

Aramis shivered.

Porthos could tell, Aramis knew; his eyes were shifted towards him, waiting to be met, asking a silent question. _Are you okay with this?_

 _No._ But it had to happen some time, didn't it?

“Was there anything else?” Treville asked. He didn't sound impatient, exactly, but he didn't seem eager for a discussion either.

Then a hand came to rest on Aramis' back. Its warmth flooded Aramis' veins, and he relaxed enough to shake his head. “No sir,” he replied, and Treville nodded and handed him the letters.

He continued to calm as Porthos' hand guided him towards the door. “Porthos!” Treville called. “Take a look at the list of men I'd like you to train.”

Aramis sucked in a breath, preparing himself for the steadying hand to disappear as Porthos peeled away from them, returned obediently to Treville's side. Except the hand stayed. As Aramis crossed the threshold out of Treville's dim office, he realized that it had been Athos' the whole time.

Athos' eyes were straight ahead, even as his gloved fingers pressed firmly into the dip between Aramis' shoulderblades.

And Aramis found himself smiling. Treville hadn't sent him alone, after all; he'd be with Athos.

He'd be fine.

*

Riding out with Athos was not the same as riding out with Porthos; Porthos was a giddy, if slightly clumsy rider, who loudly delighted in the chance to get out of the city. With Porthos, conversation flowed. They laughed, yelped; raced their horses before spoiling them with apples and other treats.

Athos was not giddy, or clumsy, or loud. In him Aramis recognized another soul trained to ride a horse from the time he could walk; Athos was as graceful in the saddle as he was in a swordfight. Still there was a quality to him that seemed highlighted by the countryside. It wasn't joy, or even happiness, but a thoughtfulness that seemed sated by the sun and the fields around them. It was nearly summer, and the air was pleasantly warm. Athos was satisfied to fall into pace beside one another, wordlessly, and simply ride.

It was unexpected-- truly, though perhaps unfairly-- that his presence should comfort Aramis as it did. Perhaps Athos' own stability had always been overshadowed by Porthos' own, or had blended with it. But Aramis felt it now. With Athos at his side, the day passed easily; his hangover and his stomachache slipped away, and his body loosened trustingly.

Athos didn't notice, or perhaps chose not to comment, but Aramis himself felt aglow with camaraderie and a fair bit of pride. He and Athos had been friends for a month now. But today was the first day he'd really _felt_ that friendship consciously-- and the first time in recent months that he'd put his trust in someone besides Porthos. It was a good start to twenty-five, Aramis decided.

It was early afternoon when they arrived at the residence of the comte who was to receive the letters. Athos conducted the hand-off, and they set off once again. The sun reddened and sank as they made their way back, and Aramis grinned at the simple truth of Athos' company.

He was still smiling, in fact, when the first shot rang out.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: animal death [off-screen]

_Chapter Two_

Aramis could see no more with his eyes open than he could with his eyes shut. Dark, then, wherever he was. Dark and cold and _dank_. His head ached-- of course it did, he'd been knocked out-- but nothing else seemed injured. He was upright, against a wall, and his hands were bound.

Aramis sighed. Things had been going so well.

“You're awake.” Athos' voice cut straight through Aramis' body, bringing first surprise, then comfort, then guilt at not having thought of the man immediately.

“Yes,” he croaked. “What the fuck happened?”

“Ambush,” Athos replied tightly. His voice was closeby, and to the left. “Evidently by men unable to tell north from south, as they failed to understand that we were returning to Paris rather than departing from it.”

“After the letters?”

“Mm,” Athos confirmed. “And a bit irritable when I explained to them that we had already handed them off.”

Aramis squeezed his eyes closed, although there was no light to distract him, as he tried to remember what had occurred. “They shot the horses,” he recalled, and all at once had to fight back the urge to weep. He'd tried not to bond with his new mount. The loss of his beloved mare had devastated him earlier that year, and he'd told himself not to become attached to a horse again. Evidently he'd failed at that.

“Yes,” Athos replied.

“One of them hit me?”

“No. You fell as the horse did-- struck your head on the ground.”

Aramis shivered. “What happened then?”

“I killed one of the men, but the other three overpowered me. They tied us up and blindfolded me, and brought us here.”

One against four, it had been. Even a man as skilled as Athos couldn't be faulted for defeat under such circumstances, but Aramis winced as he contemplated the outcome had it been two against four. Together they probably could have done it. Instead he'd hit his head while falling off his dying horse.

“How long has it been?”

“Hours. It must be early morning by now.”

“Have you slept?”

“We're chained together,” Athos informed him suddenly. Aramis groped for the metal binding attached to his left wrist and followed it across the floor; a short span away it lifted up, and Aramis' fingers encountered Athos hand, resting atop his thigh. “I assume your right hand is chained to the wall?”

“Yes.”

“As is my left. But my feet are unbound.”

“Mine as well.”

“Safe to say we aren't dealing with criminal masterminds,” Athos remarked.

“So what do they want from us, if not the letters? Are we hostages?”

“I think that would be the best case scenario.”

“What would be the other?”

“Retribution,” Athos said smoothly. “I've killed one of theirs, and with no gain on their part. Now they're going to kill us.” Athos' voice was steady; his manner nonchalant. Perhaps it was a ploy to keep Aramis himself calm. It wasn't working. He could feel panic seeping over him like an itchy cloak, and his stomach twisted and gurgled.

He was going to die. Some rational part of his mind told him that this was not a given-- he was not injured, and he was not exposed-- but rationality took a backseat to the demons of doubt and fear and memory. He was going to die. Should've died months ago. Death had caught him now, and it would relish the taking of him-- the one man who had escaped, who had not died with his brothers-- who was now going to die alone--

_No._

Athos was there, Aramis reminded himself. Athos wouldn't abandon him any more readily than Porthos would. He forced himself to push away the panic from his mind, to stay composed, stay alert. And what could help with that?

Companionship. It would see him through.

“Athos?”

“Mm.”

“I, eh-- I need you to talk to me.”

A pause. “I'm sorry?”

“I know you're not an avid conversationalist,” Aramis joked, trying to keep his voice from cracking, “but I need you to talk. I'm-- I'm not--”

“What shall we talk about?”

A little of the tension in Aramis eased. Athos had understood-- why had he ever assumed that he wouldn't?

“I don't know. What's your favorite color?”

“That's the first thing that comes to your mind?”

“I like red,” Aramis pressed on. “And green. Purple. I don't know-- I like them all.”

“I thought _favorite_ implied one?”

“All right. Green. What's your favorite food?”

“Shall I tell you one or three?”

“One.”

Athos paused. “Berries, I suppose. Of any sort.”

“Fresh or in a tart?”

“You have the mind of a philosopher.”

“We could do theories if you'd prefer,” Aramis replied, tugging slightly at the chain that bound them. “My parents trained me for the seminary my whole life.”

“How did they feel about you joining the army instead?”

“Eh-- my father was all right with it, I think. As long as my brother was there to take over the distillery, the second son could serve God or the king, you know. Either one was good enough. My mother worried, though. Still does. What does your family think?”

Athos did not reply.

“I'm sorry, _ami_.” Aramis sighed. “I didn't mean to pry. I just-- I'm trying to keep calm, you know? But I'm being silly. I'm--”

Then there was a rattle and a scrape, as Athos shifted closer. Then: “what is your favorite type of tree?”

Aramis burst out laughing. “Who's the philosopher now? God-- I'm not sure I can do the names. Hazel? No, that's boring. There's one that blooms white. It's blooming now, has been since Beltane.”

“Mm. Could be bird cherry. _Prunus padus_. It has a dark red fruit. And the leaves are ovular?”

“No. The fruit is red but the leaves are-- fingery?”

He might have been wrong, but it sounded like Athos was smiling. “Hawthorn, then,” the man replied softly. “ _Crataegus monogyna_. Also called maythorn.”

“I think my father used to use the fruit in his brandy sometimes.”

“Yes, that's right. It can also be made into jam. There's a hawthorn tree in Mayenne which, supposedly, is the oldest tree in France.”

Aramis grinned into the darkness. “I always knew you were well schooled, Athos. But I never took you for a naturalist.”

“Do you favor it for its religious associations?”

“I wasn't aware it had any.”

“Hawthorn branches are said to have composed Christ's crown of thorns. As such, there is a belief that the trees cry out on-- on Good Friday.”

Athos' voice softened as he mentioned the date, suddenly unsure of himself. Aramis felt his smile fade a little, but it did not disappear, charmed into remaining by Athos' thoughtfulness.

“I think I could do the poem, if you wanted,” Athos pressed on, when Aramis stayed silent.

“Hm?”

“Pierre de Ronsard composed an ode to the hawthorn.”

“Why does that name sound familiar?”

“He wrote the book I gave you,” Athos replied, almost shyly. “I can't remember if that poem is in it or not. He published several in his lifetime. He's-- one of my favorite poets.”

Aramis thought of the pretty little present, bound and lovely, lying abandoned somewhere in his apartment. His stomach burbled miserably. Suddenly the calm that he'd found in their conversation vanished, and once again Aramis found himself cowering before their situation. He sighed, and tried to find a more comfortable position.

“What's wrong?” Athos asked, stiffening beside him.

“Nothing.”

“You've stopped talking.”

“I like to keep things fresh.”

“Aramis.”

“Fine. Pushy pushy.” He paused. “I-- my stomach's bothering me. That's all. I drank too much-- as you've just mentioned, my birthday was yesterday. Or perhaps two days ago now.”

“Have you always been so easily nauseated?”

To say yes wouldn't have been a lie, exactly. Aramis had never been able to eat or drink as much as other men, and his stomach seemed the most vulnerable part of him to illnesses and other upsets.

But it hadn't always been _this way_. Not by a long shot.

“No.”

Athos seemed almost surprised by such an honest answer to what had probably been a teasing question. He paused a moment before speaking again. “Would you like to try to lie down? We might be able to maneuver it.”

“Yes, I think that's a marvelous idea. Maybe I could take a nap and wake up and find we were never _fucking ambushed_.”

Aramis winced the moment the words were out. Athos had sounded so-- _sincere_. Despite the lunacy of the suggestion, Aramis knew he'd just shut down a genuinely well-intentioned offer and worried that Athos would shut down right along with it.

“I'm sorry,” he amended. “I'm-- it's not that bad. I'm still up for a fight. If we ever get the fucking chance. If we can ever get unbound.”

“I was thinking,” Athos began quietly.

“What?”

“The chains. We use them to our advantage. Assuming they do intend on feeding us, or at least questioning us once more before leaving us to starve-- when they arrive, we cast the chains around their ankles, take them off their feet.”

“All right.”

“We may only get on chance.”

“ _If_ we get one.”

“Yes.”

“I'll make it count.”

“Our best chance of them coming near us will be for you to feign that you are still unconscious. They will step near to see if you are dead.”

Despite himself, Aramis shivered at that. Athos paused. “Can you do this?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Then-- be silent now. Tug on the chain if you need my attention.” Then Athos himself stopped speaking.

Though he could still hear the quiet breathing close by him, Aramis sank quickly back into loneliness; he closed his eyes and tried to slacken his muscles, though there was nobody there to see him yet. He wanted Porthos, he wanted Athos to come closer, he wanted to pull the rosary out from his shirt--

Then, so quiet he could barely make out the words, Athos' voice returned.

“ _Lovely hawthorn, verdantly flourishing, along this beautiful riverbank-- you are covered head to toe with the long arms of a wild vine--_ ”

\--the sound of it washed over Aramis, and he calmed once more--

“ _\--two armies of running ants have been set in garrison at your root; and in your half-eaten trunk all arrayed, the aphids have their bed--_ ”

\--Athos recited like a little boy, dutifully, proudly--

“ _\--the gentle nightingale in freshest youth, with its goodly mate, for lovemaking has come to stay each year in your branches--_ ”

\--behind Athos' voice, another sound was growing--

“ _\--there it makes its nest, well furnished, with wool and fine silk. There its young are hatched, which will be to me sweet prey--_ ”

Footsteps.

Those were definitely footsteps, coming down stairs.

Athos' voice stopped.

It was agony to keep his eyes closed; Aramis felt vulnerable, unaware. But he played his part, even as the door creaked open.

“Now, don't stop on our account,” a voice drawled. “Who'd've thought-- a murderer and a poet.”

Athos said nothing. Aramis strained to listen to the footsteps; there were two men for sure. He did not think there were three.

“Your friend-- he dead?”

“I can't reach,” Athos replied calmly.

“Coulda dragged him to you. Guess you don't care all too much. Some of us stand by our friends. Musketeers, I guess, not so much.”

“If you so dearly valued the safety of your companions, you should not have attacked us.”

“If you didn't wanna be attacked, you shouldn'ta been carrying letters like those.” This was a new voice, higher than the first.

“I am, and have always been, unaware of the contents of those letters. As I have explained to you already. Furthermore, they have been delivered. Your friend died for nothing.”

“As did yours,” the man hissed.

“We haven't confirmed that.”

“High time, then.”

Footsteps echoed as the man came forward, and Aramis willed himself into perfect stillness. He heard the clank of metal an instant before he felt the chain tug.

Athos cried out as Aramis opened his eyes and cast the chain forwards. It swung below the man's raised foot, and Athos pulled hard, toppling the man to the ground. In the light dim light coming from the doorway, Aramis watched Athos retrieve the man's sword and use it to run him through. Then he used the sword to break the chain holding his left arm to the wall.

The other man had drawn his sword and rushed at them; half-free now, Athos met him halfway. They fought, Athos' sword in his left hand. Aramis crawled forward, trying to do two things at once: locate the fallen man's pistol, and extend his left arm so that Athos could use his right.

Athos realized his intentions seamlessly, and switched hands; though he fought exceptionally well with his left, no skill set in France could match him if he used his right. Athos advanced on the man, leading him away from Aramis. Aramis spied the pistol, on the floor a short span away; he inched forward, both chains extending nearly taut now: the one binding him to the wall and the one binding him to Athos. His arm jerked to and fro as his friend fought.

Another set of footsteps pounded down the stairs; just as Athos slayed the second man, a third arrived. Aramis' fingertips were within inches of the pistol. His right wrist burned as he tugged against the wall-chain. Still trying to give Athos the fullest range of motion possible, his left arm was up against the side of his head as he reached across the stone floor--

Athos' shriek of rage as he felled the third man nearly muffled Aramis' cry of agony, as the final thrust wrenched his shoulder from its joint.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: medical procedure, vomit, alcohol abuse/dependency

“Unlock yourself.” The keys hit the stone with a dull clang, but Aramis could only stare down at them dizzily. The pain had overtaken his body in an instant, and even now as it faded it rendered his left arm utterly useless.

Unaware, Athos was checking the bodies of the captors. “At a guess those letters were accepting the merging of estates by the comte's first cousin. Such things always leave some workers redundant. These men were probably protecting their livelihood. Come on, are you free yet?”

“I--” Aramis croaked. “I'm bound by my right hand.” He was good enough with his left that he probably could have managed it-- were that arm not currently dangling like a serpent at his side.

If Athos was frustrated by Aramis' inability to free himself, he didn't show it; but neither was he terribly gentle as he retrieved the keys and unlocked Aramis was the wall. Aramis pushed unsteadily to his feet. He couldn't afford more than a moment to find his balance, though, because Athos was hurdling over the bodies and up the stairs, still bound to him right hand to left. Aramis stumbled along after him.

The stairs led to the main floor of a building, which seemed to Aramis' eyes a house converted for military purposes. But he hadn't long to investigate, as Athos had located their weapons and was pulling him towards them. Every tug of the chain sent spikes of agony from his shoulder down his arm and across his chest, until he could barely see through the tears and dancing spots of white.

Athos was talking, asking him something, holding out his weapons to him. It was all Aramis could do to sheathe his sword and dagger and holster his pistol securely without sobbing in pain. Still he was afforded no rest. The moment they had reclaimed their arms, Athos had then dashing away again, sprinting from the house. They were not far from the woods at the edge of the property.

Even the dim light of dawn caused Aramis' eyes to ache and squint; luckily Athos seemed to know where he was going. Mindlessly, Aramis gritted his teeth and followed him into the trees.

A solid five minutes later, they stopped running at last. Athos bent at the waist, breathing hard; though his face was flushed, there was a smile across it. For a moment they both struggled to catch their breath. Then Athos straightened, wiped the sweat from his brow, and fished in his pocket for a ring of keys. “Give me your wrist,” he panted. “Let's be done with these chains.”

Aramis didn't move. Athos shook his head, still smiling. “Give me your wrist. Unless returning to Paris like this is meant to be another notion of _bonding_.”

“Athos,” Aramis said quietly.

“What?” The smile bobbed like a boat on the ocean.

“My arm is-- my shoulder is out of the joint.”

Athos' smile sank abruptly away, replaced by the coldness of the ocean deep. “You didn't say. How did that happen?”

With his good shoulder, Aramis offered a shrug.

Athos swallowed, and Aramis could see the moment that he worked it out. “I did that,” he murmured. “When I killed that man-- you cried out. I pulled your arm back. I pulled it that hard.”

“It's not your fault,” Aramis sighed. He was beginning to get the slightest handle on the pain in his shoulder, but his head had begun to pound and his stomach had never stopped aching, of course, and he really didn't want to deal with Athos' guilt at the moment. He really didn't want to do anything but sleep.

“I did that to you.”

“You were protecting us. It isn't your fault our arms were bound.”

“But none of it would have happened if I had been more careful--”

“ _Athos_.”

Athos shut up.

“I need you to set my arm, and I need you to do it now.” Aramis felt a momentary burst of pride at the steady authority in his voice.

Marginally calmer, Athos nodded.

“Do you know how to?”

“No.”

Aramis caught himself before he could sigh. It was becoming clearer and clearer that Athos had not come from the armies as nearly all of the rest of them had.

“All right. I'm going to tell you how. First things first: undo the chains.”

With utmost care, Athos knelt at Aramis' side and slid the key into cuff; when it came undone, he guided it away gently, so that Aramis barely felt a jostle.

“All right,” he said, standing.

“Now do yourself, damn it,” Aramis growled. Did Athos really care so little for his own comfort that he was going to leave himself trailing the weighty metal just to avoid delaying another minute? Perhaps, but Athos nodded. The chains soon fell away.

“Good. All right.” Aramis settled himself carefully on the ground. “Sit down beside me, to my left.” Athos did so, and Aramis lay back so that he was fully supine on the forest floor. With a grunt, he moved his arm away from his body to the proper angle. “Now, get a hold of my arm,” he instructed.

Athos tugged his fine gloves off and dropped them carelessly; he wrapped his left hand around Aramis' wrist, and positioned his right hand just below Aramis' elbow. For just a moment, Aramis let himself savor that touch. Athos' palms were more than a little sweaty, but his touch was still a steadying thing, and Aramis felt his body relaxing.

Good. Tense muscles did not go back into place.

Though it hurt to move his fingers, Aramis tightened them around Athos' wrist. Out loud he asked, “do you have a good grip on me?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Now you're going to need to put your foot against my armpit.”

“Excuse me?”

“You're going to need to pull my arm, and it's no good if you don't brace the rest of me.”

“Oh.” With none of his usual grace, Athos brought his leg up and fitted his boot securely against Aramis' side.

“Good. Now, when I tell you to, you're going to pull, in the direction it's pointing now. Pull _hard_ , Athos. Even if I cry out. Pull steadily, without shifting the angle, and don't stop until you feel it settle.”

Athos' face was pale. When he opened his mouth, Aramis half expected him to say that he couldn't do it. But instead he rasped, “are you ready?”

Aramis grinned. “Always. Go.”

And then pain overtook him.

Athos' presence was still known, but it was hard to feel the comfort through the _agony_ that radiated from his shoulder down his arm, down his chest, up his neck. Aramis ground his teeth to stay silent. Sweat sprung anew at his forehead and back. Muscles stretched, time passed like ice melting, and when Aramis thought he could take no more, more came nevertheless.

He screamed then. There was nothing else for it.

Then his shoulder popped primly back into place.

*

Vomit surged up his throat. Aramis tried to swallow it back, for Athos' sake, but failed; he rolled onto his side and was sick onto the grass. The sun was rising between the trees, silhouetting them. Aramis stared at the serenity of the pink and black through blurry eyes as he fought-- and failed-- not to vomit again.

Eventually, spitting the last of the bile, Aramis sat up slowly. “It only hurts for a moment, but God, what a terrible moment,” he remarked. And indeed, the pain was an ache now, a soreness that he could tolerate. Aramis laughed, giddy. He pushed himself to his feet and glanced around for his companion.

Athos was still on the ground; his arms shook where they propped him up. Tears stood thickly in his eyes.

“Athos,” Aramis murmured. He stepped towards him, only for the man to clamor to his feet and turn away.

“Do you need a sling?” Athos rasped, without looking back. He dried his eyes with a careful little motion.

“Yes, I do.”

Athos undid the scarf from his neck; he came to Aramis' side and fastened it in place, all without letting their eyes meet.

“I'm all right, _ami_ ,” Aramis said quietly.

Still Athos did not look up.

“It's an injury to my _left_ arm,” Aramis tried again, “and it will heal within weeks. No bones were broken. All in all, a small price to pay for freedom.”

But the more he spoke, the more wretched Athos looked, until Aramis was sure that to continue would be to prod him fully into weeping. So instead he slung his good arm around the Athos' neck. “A man such as yourself should be able to estimate how far we are from Paris,” Aramis said lightly.

Athos nodded. “Nine or ten _lieue_ , I would say.”

“Wonderful. We'll be home for supper.”

The walk was long, and Athos was too upset to be the kind of company he'd been yesterday. It took an hour or so, but eventually Aramis stopped trying. They ambled along, he a few paces behind the other man; Athos walked with his arms around himself, limping slightly, though he would not let Aramis examine his leg. Aramis, for his part, was more tired than hurt. His shoulder was a bearable pain now, as was his head; but he was exhausted, and as the sun rose the air grew warmer, which was not helping matters. It was a rare thing for Aramis to grow too hot. He loved the heat, reveled in it, especially in recent months-- but now even the mild warmth felt oppressive. He longed to stop and strip off his jacket. But that would involve asking Athos for help, which involved mentioning his injury, and Aramis was willing to put up with the discomfort if it spared him the sight of the guilt in Athos' eyes. Still, he felt his body overheating, which didn't help his stomach.

They had done their duty, yes. They had escaped captivity, yes. They had done all of this without serious injury, the worst part of the whole ordeal being the loss of the horses, and yet--

Twenty-five was not going well so far.

They found a stream around midday and stopped to drink; Aramis ducked his entire head in appreciatively, and grinned up at Athos, wordlessly encouraging him to do the same. Athos looked away as though repulsed. They pulled even farther apart when they resumed their walk, Athos speeding ahead despite what seemed like an injury to his knee, and Aramis lagged behind, allowing it.

Their shadows grew longer as the day progressed. The heat fell away, but blisters rose up on his feet, biting and stinging. Fully miserable now, Aramis could barely spare the energy to celebrate as they reached the city border. Athos paused and allowed him to catch up. Rather than attempt to engage him, Aramis simply fell into step with him as they trudged back to the garrison.

Though reaching Paris had brought about no reaction, the sight of the familiar yard was enough to weaken Aramis' knees. Even more of a relief was the well-known face that now turned upwards to see them.

“Hey!” Porthos cried brightly, then a cloud passed over his expression as he approached them. “What'n the hell happened to you?”

“Long story,” Aramis sighed. Porthos had come to his side and was gently probing the cut on his head. It was so comforting to be back in his presence that Aramis felt his eyes slipping shut. “Here's the plan: eat. Drink. Sleep. For a week.”

“How's your head?”

“Struck, but not addled.”

Porthos had not stopped frowning. “'s that broken?”

“Dislocated. Athos saw to it already; it's just sore now.”

“Are you all right?” Porthos murmured, leaning in, keeping his voice low. He was satisfied with his assessment of Aramis' physical well-being, it seemed; here was the underlying worry expressed.

“I'm fine,” Aramis said firmly. Porthos' brow smoothed over and he nodded.

“Trainin' was nice 'n' all, but I think we stick together from now on, eh? The three of us?” Then suddenly he was glancing around. “Where's Athos?” he grunted.

Aramis noticed his absence for the first time as well. “Has he gone to give his report?” Porthos shrugged, and together they made their way up to Treville's office.

Athos wasn't there. Naturally, this meant that Aramis himself had to fill the captain in on the course of events, taking nearly half an hour to run through every detail-- save the exact circumstances of his injury. Meanwhile his thoughts were on Athos' location. In the end, he had to admit to Treville that, although Athos had come back essentially uninjured, he'd disappeared the moment he had the chance.

But the captain merely nodded at this.

Back in the yard, Porthos pushed Aramis down to a bench and demanded that he eat before they investigate further. Aramis didn't take much convincing. While he ate, Porthos disappeared to fetch a proper sling for his arm, and switched it out gently for Athos' scarf. Aramis examined the scarf. It was wrecked. His hand shook slightly as he stowed it away.

When his spoon began to scrape the bottom of the bowl, Aramis frowned. They'd taken care of all that was necessary, and in doing so they'd given Athos a moment to himself. Now it seemed time to go and find him, though Aramis wasn't quite sure how.

The whole matter would also have been easier if Porthos had been more adamantly on his side. “Maybe he just needs the night,” he fretted, toying with his empty cup.

“He shouldn't be alone,” Aramis insisted. “That may he his usual style, but it can't happen tonight.”

“What happened t'you two?” Porthos' lowered his voice. “I mean-- 's'there anythin' you-- anythin' you didn't tell the captain?”

“No.”

“He wasn't hurt? Or somethin'?”

Aramis sighed, and pushed his bowl away. “No. But he blames himself for my injury.”

“How's that?”

“We were chained together at the wrists, my left to Athos' right. While we were fighting our captors, I was chained both to the wall and to Athos. My arm was extended so that he could move further away. Athos thrust his sword in such a way that-- my shoulder dislocated.”

Porthos processed that for a moment. “I'd feel bad as well, if it was me,” he said at last. Aramis sighed.

“Why? It's just how it happened.”

“I'm not sayin' he _should_ feel bad. Just sayin' I understand it. 'specially given it's Athos.”

“He shouldn't be alone, Porthos,” Aramis said seriously. “I don't care if we carry him out of whatever hellhole he's holed up in. You didn't see him. He-- he was-- _really fucking upset_ ,” Aramis blurted, unable to find betters word to describe their friend's nearly tearful reaction.

“All right. What're his usual places?”

Between them, they were able to list six places they'd known Athos to frequent. Perhaps they should have split the list, but instead they went together, working through the names one by one. Aramis grew more and more worried at each dead end.

Finally, at the fourth tavern, Porthos gave a little cry of victory. Athos sat alone, far from the fire; empty cups filled the table before him. Aramis stepped forward at once; Porthos' arm retained him. “Maybe I oughta, 'f it's like you say.” It hurt to admit that he was probably right. Aramis nodded and watched Porthos make his way to Athos' table.

Aramis expected it to go one of two ways: either the man would protest the intrusion, or he'd systematically deny that he was in any distress whatsoever. Instead Athos slumped, openly despairing. He let Porthos wrap an arm around him, and his face crumpled at the familiar touch; he looked as though he'd like nothing better than to put his head down and weep. Instead he allowed Porthos to help him to his feet and lead him from the tavern.

Aramis trailed behind them. Athos was avoiding him entirely, looking only at Porthos, trusting only in Porthos. Between drink and limp, his steps were disastrously unsteady. As soon as they'd reached the street, Porthos wrapped an arm around Athos' waist. Aramis couldn't help but reach out to him as well. “Athos?” he tried.

But Athos chose that moment to break away. He fell against the nearest wall, bracing himself with both hands, and shuddered horribly; the motion seemed to climb up his spine. Then a gush of vomit splashed onto the ground between his boots.

It was grotesquely clear that was bringing up nothing but wine; Aramis hung back, his own stomach doing sympathetic spins. Porthos, of course, went right to Athos' side. He braced his knee against the back of Athos' thighs and positioned his hands at Athos' waist, holding the man steady as he swayed.

“ _Shh_ , 'sall right,” he soothed, “Let it come, _frère_. 'sall right, get it all out... tha's it, y'll feel better when you're done....”

Athos heaved and belched and spat and groaned, until finally the sickness passed. He was trembling from head to toe as Porthos led him away from the wall. Aramis wanted to say something helpful, or funny, or even something useless-- but nothing came to mind. Athos just leaned into Porthos and let himself be guided.

What should have been a ten minute walk was well more than half an hour. Three more times Athos' stomach compelled them to stop. The fourth episode left him on his hands and knees, unable to rise even with assistance; Porthos scooped him up and carried him the final blocks home.

*

The door was unlocked when they arrived at Athos' apartments; Aramis pointed this out, and Porthos snorted.

“Course it is. Lockin' it would imply some sorta self-preservation instincts.”

Aramis scrambled to light a few candles. In the darkness, Athos was dead weight in Porthos' grasp, head lolling at the end of his neck, feet and hands dangling wherever they pleased. He seemed unconscious as they stepped over the threshold. But when Porthos approached the bed and tried to lay him down on it, Athos flung his arms around Porthos' neck with a noise of distress and held on stubbornly.

Porthos' smile was the definition of patience. “All right, _shh_ , you scruffy drunk idiot. I'll sit with ya, but you've gotta let me get on the damn bed first.” Athos consented to being put down, but the moment that Porthos had settled himself against the wall he crawled to him and dropped his head against his chest.

Aramis watched them silently. Porthos was unhappy, to be certain, but not _upset_ \-- somehow, he seemed almost in his element. And Athos himself was already asleep, trusting his friend completely.

He himself had no place there, Aramis realized with a pang. It would be best to leave, but he couldn't bring himself to. Instead he ran a hand through his hair, then mused aloud: “he can barely look at me.”

At the sound of Aramis' voice, Porthos' head jerked up in surprise. Perhaps he'd even forgotten that Aramis was there.

“He just needs to come to terms with it,” Porthos replied, keeping respectfully quiet. “He'll be all right.”

“I don't blame him for my arm. And it's not a serious injury in any case.”

“'m sure this was the worst of it.”

“He's making it out to be-- so _important_ \--”

“Look,” Porthos reasoned. “It ain't his fault you're hurt, and it ain't your fault he's upset.”

“I should go.”

“Don't be like this, Aramis.” As Porthos' words grew louder, Athos shifted restlessly and coughed a little. “Hey now,” Porthos crooned, full attention back his charge. He grabbed a pillow and placed it in his lap, then guided the man down to it gently; Athos settled at once back to sleep. Porthos began to stroke through his hair. It was a tenderness that may have surprised another man, but was simply nostalgic to Aramis; Porthos had seen to him with the same brotherly care not long ago.

Aramis shivered.

“You all right?”

“Mm. My stomach hurts.”

“Been doin' that a lot lately, eh?”

Aramis shrugged.

“Come and sit with us. There's room for three.”

“There's hardly room for two!”

“ _Aramis_ ,” Porthos said sharply.

And though Aramis hated himself for it, the urge to be beside his friend was suddenly too much to resist. So he gave up trying. He pulled off his hat and placed it on the writing desk, unbuttoned his jacket, and blew out the candles.

The bed creaked as he nestled himself at Porthos' other side. “Go to sleep,” Porthos whispered; exhausted by the very words, Aramis laid his head against Porthos' shoulder and let his eyes slip shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, moved on fairly quickly from the plotty parts of the fic to the brotherly love parts... but there are more twists ahead, and I'm afraid to say it won't be all happy cuddles for our Inseparables....


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: vomit, alcohol abuse/dependency

Aramis woke to the pain in his shoulder as he was jostled aside; he blinked until the room came into focus. Athos hung awkwardly off the bed. Porthos supported him as he retched over the mattress' edge, hopefully into his chamber pot but possibly just onto the floor.

Aramis sighed. The pale light of dawn glowed pink through the window.

“C'n you get 'im some wat'r?” Porthos slurred, still half asleep himself. Aramis grunted his acknowledgment and pushed to his feet. The water on Athos' windowsill was cool and only a little bit dusty; Aramis filled a cup with it and turned back to the bed, where Athos had stopped vomiting for the moment. There was no chamber pot in sight. The floor was a mess.

Porthos' face was soft with sleepiness, but bore no real expression; he wasn't looking at Athos, nor at Aramis, but at something across the room. Or maybe nothing at all.

Aramis crouched at Athos' side, mindful of the vomit; he helped him take a mouthful of water. Athos swished and spat unceremoniously. Then he took a timid pull and swallowed it.

“How are you feeling?”

Athos swallowed again, though he hadn't drunk any more-- then jerked his head away from Aramis and belched, bringing the water back up.

Aramis raised his eyebrows. “A silly question, I suppose,” he sighed.

“I need to sit up,” Athos croaked, by way of reply. Aramis secretly suspected that it was going to make matters worse, but nodded nevertheless; Porthos eased Athos upright and helped him lean back against the wall. And it did seem to help, a bit. Athos was able to keep down a little of the water, and soon he was dozing again with his head on Porthos' shoulder.

Porthos' head leaned against Athos', eyes closed in kind. With nothing else to do, Aramis poked around Athos' apartment until he found a mop and a washing bucket, then borrowed more water from the sill. It was slow going with one good arm. And he was trying to be quiet as well, respectful of his sleeping friends-- but odor of the room was frankly horrible and, besides that, he doubted that he could fall back asleep himself.

But before he could actually set to cleaning, Athos gave a little grunt. “Don't do that.”

“It stinks.”

“You'll upset your arm.”

“Would you shut up about my arm?” Aramis hissed, but now Porthos was awake too, blinking his big brown eyes, still pitiably short of a good night's sleep.

“Guess nobody else wants breakfast, eh?” He yawned.

“You two should report to the garrison,” Athos said, shifting forward on the bed.

“I have leave,” Aramis replied. He toyed with the splintering wood of the mop handle.

“Of course. For your arm, which isn't hurt.”

“Go back to sleep,” Aramis grouched.

“I will. Believe me. But I hardly require the two of you to watch me as I do.”

Porthos pushed himself to his feet beside the bed and stretched theatrically, either ignorant of the building tension or deliberately cutting straight through it. “Man just said he's got leave. Guess only one of us has any duties today.”

“Take him with you.”

Aramis froze.

“Sorry?” Porthos replied, mildly.

“Take Aramis with you. I'd rather be alone and he'll actually listen to you.”

Porthos actually looked annoyed now, but rather than making Aramis feel better it made him feel ten times worse. “What the hell?” Aramis snapped, rounding on Athos. Unconsciously, his hand slid into position on the broom handle, as though on a musket.

“I'd rather be alone. What's so hard to understand about that?”

“Could've asked nicely.”

“I'm fairly sure I tried,” Athos returned coolly.

“Athos--” Porthos began.

“Why would you want to be alone?” Aramis was distantly surprised at the rising anger inside of him. “We're fucking offering to stay-- why would you turn that down?”

“I don't require my hand to be held. Unlike you.”

“Athos!”

“What exactly do you mean by that?” Aramis growled.

“Aramis!”

“What do you think I mean? If you require companionship, that's your business. I do not. Nor do I desire it.”

“That's bullshit, and you know it.”

“Why?”

“Because we're friends!” With a pang of shame, Aramis realized that his eyes were growing wet.

“I don't rely on such things.”

“Well I fucking do!” Aramis' head was pounding. “Do you know why? Know why I rely on the two of you? Because I am having a _bad goddamn year_! And sometimes having _friends_ has been the only reason I can get out of bed in the morning! But I guess you'd rather just pickle yourself in wine!”

“That's enough!” Porthos roared, as Aramis' hand released the broom to clatter uselessly in Athos' direction. “Aramis! Get yourself together. And Athos! We sure ain't leavin' now, so fuckin' deal with it. Your head ain't on right.”

“You think I'll _pickle_ myself?”

“Yeah, I think you might.”

Then Athos was on his feet too. “Get out,” he ordered.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Cause we're your friends, in case you hadn't heard!”

“ _Why_?”

“Dunno. Kinda thought it was a good idea.”

“A misinformed effort.”

The blood in Aramis' head swelled up in a culminating wave that left his vision dancing, knees trembling. “Fuck you,” he growled.

“Fuck you.” Athos didn't miss a beat.

Between the tears and the dizzy spots of red, Aramis could hardly see a thing. He jabbed his finger at where he hoped Athos to be. “Do you fucking think I take this lightly?” he ground out, lungs hitching as he fought not to sob, or vomit. “Do you think that I, of all people, would chose a friend by chance? Out of convenience?”

Athos snarled. “You've befriended me either out of pity, or out of a misguided belief that am ever good company. I assure you that I never am. And I also assure you that your pity is unwanted. Leave.”

Porthos drew himself up to full height. “No.”

“Leave.”

“Ain't leavin'.”

Athos lunged forward, and for one moment Aramis was sure he'd throw a punch. Instead he gagged, and bent double.

A mouthful of syrupy bile dribbled onto the floor. Aramis and Porthos could do nothing but stare.

“Go!” Athos roared at them, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. “ _Just fucking go_! No one will blame you!”

“We're stayin',” Porthos growled, and Athos' face crumpled in helpless despair.

“Please,” he sobbed, losing his balance and sinking to a crouch. “I'm letting you go. I'm _letting you!_ ”

“But you ain't askin'.”

Then, more than asking, he was fucking begging. “You can't be here. You can't be here. You _can't be near me_! Please just _go_!”

The honesty in Athos' words was a dagger in Aramis' back. _Unwanted_. He was unwanted, truly.

 _Again_.

Aramis pushed past Porthos, across the room, out into the street.

Sank down against the cobblestones. Buried his head in his knees.

And wept his heart out.

*

The sun rose slowly. Warmth returned to the Paris streets, but Aramis couldn't feel it. If anyone passed by, if anyone was there to witness the spectacle of a grown man, bruised and battered, sobbing quietly with his back against the wall-- if anyone saw it, they certainly didn't stop. And he certainly didn't care in any case.

He wasn't sure how much time passed before the door creaked open. Porthos said nothing as he emerged from Athos' chambers, and nothing as he pulled Aramis to his feet. He held Aramis' hat in one hand. Gently he returned it to its perch, then lowered the brim to hide Aramis' splotchy face from view as they made their way through the rising bustle of life.

At the door of Aramis' apartment, Porthos sighed. “I need to at least make excuses to Treville. Will you be all right in the meantime?”

 _No,_ Aramis felt like saying; his face was hot and his hands were cold and all he wanted to do was put his head against someone's shoulder and be held, _tightly_. “Yes,” he replied instead. “Report for the whole day, _mon ami_. I know you hate to be truant.”

Porthos frowned. “You sure?”

“Of course.” He forced a smile.

“Right. Get some rest, Aramis. I'll see you tonight.”

Aramis watched forlornly until Porthos disappeared around a corner; then he forced himself to locate the key in his pocket and open his door. Inside the apartment, he buried himself at once in bed. This, unfortunately, provoked more sadness than it soothed; as he wrapped himself up in his blankets and skins, Aramis couldn't help but recall the last time he'd been in this bed. It had been two days ago, and Athos had been beside him. Porthos had slept in the chair, he supposed, and had been sitting at the table as they'd awoken.

Two days ago. They'd been together, and they'd been content.

Now Aramis was nothing but lonely, and in pain.

The ache in his shoulder was the least of it. The tears had not been kind to his body; in fact, they seemed to have ripped it apart on their way out. His head hurt; his eyes hurt; his throat hurt; his chest hurt. His stomach hurt. Of course. And boiling underneath all of this was the pain of a broken friendship, the terror that he and Athos might be done with one another for good this time. If he had the energy, he'd weep anew.

Of course.

Even after Isabelle's departure, even after his father's death-- he'd wept, naturally, but never so _frequently._ Never so _easily_. These past months, tears seemed to wait around every corner. They'd soaked into Porthos' collar more times than Aramis could count; on a few occasions, the collar had been the captain's. And that said nothing of how often they'd soaked into his own shirtsleeve, his own pillow. The pages of his goddamn bible.

He wept at least once a week. And his stomach, which had never been the best, now bothered him at the slightest sign of stress, or overindulgence. He had grey in his beard. And then there were the nightmares, twisted and bloody, from which he woke up shaking and, twice now, soaked in his own piss.

Maybe it really had broken him. Maybe, no matter what, he'd spend the rest of his days always a little bit short of all right-- or very fucking short of it. Maybe he'd never really leave that forest. Maybe there would always be a piece of him there, freezing and starving and bleeding to death there, and maybe that was why he couldn't seem to get anything right.

Curling himself up more tightly, complacent in the thought of surrendering to despair, Aramis felt his hand brush up against something hard. Instinctively, he opened his eyes. The book of poetry from Athos was lost beside him in the blankets, a lush and lovely thing even through the lens of his gloomy eyes. He pulled it closer, and lifted it carefully open.

Athos had purchased this for him. He pictured Athos buying it; wondered if he'd thought terribly long about it, wondered how he'd come to this volume in particular, wondered if he'd run his fingers against the leather bindings before making his decision.

He flipped through the pages gently, hoping desperately to find one poem in particular--

And there it was. The ode to the hawthorn. Aramis' eyes watered, blurring the letters, as he read over the words and tried to remember how they'd sounded in Athos' voice.

There was a fifth verse. Athos hadn't gotten to it, it seemed; their captors had interrupted. Aramis brushed a finger over the lines as he read:

_Now, to life,_   
_gentle hawthorn_   
_Life without end,_   
_Life without which the thunder,_   
_Or the axe, or the wind,_   
_Or the weather_   
_Would not be able to hurl you to the ground._

Somewhere along the way, Aramis' eyes began to close. There was a comfort to being in his own bed that nothing could negate completely, and there was an even greater comfort in knowing that Porthos would return to see him soon.

And there was, somehow, more comfort than both of those in the little book.

Pressing the flat leather cover to his chest, Aramis fell asleep.

*

A knock woke him from a blessedly dreamless sleep; Aramis crawled out from his somewhat overwarm mountain of blankets and shuffled to the door. Porthos's smile was small but genuine as he stepped into the room.

“Hungry?” Aramis gave a shrug. Porthos ignored it as he unpacked the basket he was carrying and set its contents out on the table. “From Serge. Sends his love.”

“How was Treville?” Aramis ventured.

“Eh-- more patient than I think he felt like bein'. Said all three of us report tomorrow or _shit will occur_.”

“His words?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit may occur anyway, if Athos has to be anywhere near me.”

“I think that's his point,” Porthos mused. “You had leave, otherwise. Think he wants to see all of us in the same place.” Aramis shook his head glumly, and Porthos frowned. “Sit. Eat,” he ordered.

So he sat, and ate. He should have been hungrier, given that the last time he'd eaten was-- well, the last time Porthos had sat him down and forced him to. But he wasn't, not really, and Porthos seemed to know. He regarded him evenly, and Aramis did his best to ignore the quiet, compassionate question that was written all over his face.

But rather than let the issue slide, Porthos simply asked that question aloud.

“Aramis.” His voice was solemn. “I ain't seen you like that in months. What's in your head, _frère_?”

What  _ was _ in his head? “I've ruined Athos' scarf,” Aramis blurted out, then frowned. He'd expected those words no more than Porthos had.

“What?”

“His scarf. The purple-ish one, the one he always wears.” Aramis fished the item from his pocket and held it out for Porthos to examine. Porthos took it and ran the fine material between his fingers. “I gave the full weight of my arm to it,” Aramis continued miserably, “and I guess there must have been a few holes already because the pull of it ripped them all open.”

Porthos nodded solemnly and handed it back. Aramis winced as he received it; it stank of sweat too, and was dirty and bloody, though he wasn't sure which of the two of them had bled on it.

“He'll probably still wear it,” Porthos remarked. “You know Athos.”

“I could--” Aramis began.

“What?”

“I could give him one of mine.”

“One of your scarves? Since when do you wear scarves?”

“I don't, really. But my family sent me off to Paris with a few.”

“All right. Fetch 'em.”

Aramis nodded and went to search his drawers; it didn't take him long to find the bundle. He unraveled it and dropped the three scarves on the table.

“Mm. I like this one for 'im,” Porthos said immediately, selecting one; it was tan, decorated with lines and patterns of brown and black.

“My mother made that one.”

“Would you rather give 'im another?”

“No!” Aramis cried. “No, that's not what I meant. I meant-- I'd like for him to wear it. Do you think he would?”

“I think so.”

“It's coarser than his old one,” Aramis fretted. 

Porthos smiled. “He'll wear it.”

Aramis nodded dutifully, returned the other scarves, and Athos' old one, to their allotted drawer.

“'m  _ fucking _ worried about him,” Aramis mumbled, sitting back down. He ran the fingers of his good hand along the material of the scarf, feeling the thicker threads that made its pattern.

“He'll be all right. We'll be there for'im.”

“He doesn't want us to be.”

Aramis lifted his head; Porthos' expression had softened. “That wasn't Athos talkin',” Porthos soothed. “You 'n' me both know what it's like, talkin' out of anger. Or fear.”

“What's he afraid of?”

“I dunno. But you can't take it to heart, Aramis. He ain't like you, and you're assumin' he is. You need someone when you're thinkin'. He needs to be alone. Maybe he coulda been a little nicer about it, but, y'know.”

Despite his gloom, a smile crept over Aramis' face; Porthos' honesty, his compassion was like a spill of sunshine. “I'm all right, _ami_ ,” Aramis murmured.

Porthos nodded, relaxing slightly. “Athos will be too,” he replied.

It was truly a sin, Aramis would later reflect, that someone with such good intentions could be so entirely wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a challenge to write Aramis and Athos as five years younger; not only are they a bit less seasoned, but the timing here is only a few months after Savoy and within a year of Milday's “death”. Especially in this chapter, where Athos has given in to a lot of his demons, it's been a balancing act. I hope, dear readers, that you find my portrayal of the boys a fair compromise between their established characterizations and their different circumstances. Concrit, as always, is much appreciated.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: alcohol abuse/dependency; alcohol withdrawal; mentions of suicide

Porthos did not stay with him that night. This had happened plenty in recent months, but it had dwindled recently; to revisit it seemed like a backwards step that Aramis was loathe to take. That didn't prevent him from desiring it, though. When the door shut behind Porthos' retreating back, it was all Aramis could do not to call for him to turn around, to keep him from being alone.

That night, he barely slept. Sunrise found him cross-legged on the bed, fingers stiff on his rosary, prayers slow on his lips.

He dressed for the day quickly. If nothing else, at least he'd be with Porthos again soon, and that made the prospect of it all a bit less frightening. He'd walk directly to his friend's apartment, Aramis decided. It was too soon to go straight to the garrison, but he'd collect Porthos beforehand and the two of them could go together.

And maybe, maybe, Athos would be there too. He stowed Athos' new scarf in his pocket. After a moment's contemplation, he slipped the book into his pocket as well.

*

Porthos blinked blearily as he opened the door and let him in, still only partially dressed; Aramis sat with his head in the crook of his good arm at Porthos' table as his friend puttered around, finding his boots and belts. A hand on his back roused him from his half-doze.

“Treville's not gonna give us any orders today,” Porthos assured him evenly. Aramis nodded and took a moment to lean up against his friend. Then he pushed himself to his feet.

“I don't think Athos is going to report.”

“Well then, the captain's gonna be angry.” Porthos shrugged

But far from angry, Treville looked as concerned as they were when lunchtime came and Athos had still not arrived. “Find him,” he commanded, and shooed them from the garrison.

Porthos' hand found Aramis' shoulder as they made their way through Paris to Athos' apartment. Aramis could feel the familiar sick panic swelling. He swallowed it back as they grew closer, focusing on Porthos' hand, on the sound of Porthos' boot heels. Then, too slow and far too soon, they arrived.

Porthos shrugged, trying to look cheerful, and pushed the door open.

The odor of the room was nothing short of vile. Yesterday's vomit had not been seen to; on the contrary, more had joined it. The chamber pot had not been emptied. Wine turned to vinegar in a massive puddle filled with broken glass, and an apple with a few half-hearted bites taken out of it browned and withered within arm's reach of the bed. The room was dim as the door shut behind them.

And on the bed was Athos, shivering, shirtless. Sweat shone on his forehead, matted in his hair; his locket lay dark against the pale skin of his chest.

“ _Athos_ ,” Aramis breathed. He wanted to be angry; wanted to shout and rage about recklessness and folly, but his friend looked so honestly pathetic that Aramis found his ire extinguished before the spark had even caught.

“He's drunk,” Porthos murmured, sounding disappointed.

This caught Athos' attention, and he looked up at last. Tears welled in his eyes. “You can't be here,” he muttered. “You can't be-- you can't be--”

Aramis found himself picking across the room to settle neatly at the man's side, wrapping his fingers around Athos' own. His breath caught. Athos' hands-- strong, graceful, _lethal_ hands-- were trembling like the legs of a newborn foal. “Athos, _ami._ Can you look at me?”

Athos shook his head. Pulled his hand away.

Then he began to sob, dryly, breathlessly.

Fear curdled Aramis' stomach; he looked to Porthos, whose own face was frowning. “ _Is_ he drunk?” Aramis mouthed. Suddenly he wasn't so sure.

Porthos' lips parted to speak, then pressed shut once more. He sighed. Carefully, thoughtfully, he came to join them and knelt before his brother; he rested his broad hands atop Athos' knees until the sobs faded away. “Athos,” he murmured, once the man had calmed. “What was the last time you had a drink?”

No response.

Porthos shifted closer, touched a steady hand to Athos' chin. Athos flinched, rolled his shoulders-- but let his head be lifted.

“I need to know.” Porthos spoke warmly, calmly; Aramis remembered that voice. Remembered it waking him from nightmares, soothing him as he grieved. Remembered it holding him together like an invisible thread.

Athos said nothing. The picture of patience, Porthos tried again. “Athos, have you had a drink since the night you got back?”

Aramis shook his head.

“All right, day 'n' a half ago. When did this all start?”

“After you left,” Athos whispered.

Porthos glanced back at Aramis. “He's not drunk. This isn't from drinkin' too much. It's from not drinkin' enough.”

At his words, fresh tears pooled in Athos' eyes-- though still they did not fall. Porthos' hands found his shoulders.

“I stopped,” Athos bleated, sounding like a child who'd broken something of his father's and was seeking forgiveness for it. “I stopped. 'll be 'll right soon.” His posture was strangely submissive; his head was bowed but not so far that he lost sight of Porthos' face.

“Athos, your body don't know what to do when you switch up so fast. Y've gotta ease into it.”

“D'dn't have enough _time_.”

“Why not?” Porthos was rubbing his thumbs against the tips of Athos' skinny shoulders, so absently that Aramis suspected the gesture was unconscious. “Why'd you think you didn't have enough time?”

But Athos shook his head, lips firmly shut. He shivered.

Aramis laid a hand on his bare back, dismayed to feel how the cold his skin was, though the room was warm. “Hey,” he whispered, edging back to the wall. “Athos, come sit back. Come sit between us. Let's warm you up.” To his relief, Athos came willingly, peeling away from Porthos to slide back and bury his face in Aramis' neck instead. Aramis slung an arm around him and held him close.

Porthos had gone to Athos' bureau; now he returned with an armful of blankets. He draped one around Athos' shoulders like a cloak; the other two he laid across Athos' and Aramis' laps. Then he settled himself at Athos' other side.

They were quiet for a while, sitting in a heap on the little bed; Athos' breathing came in wet drags and Porthos' was a steady, calming thing.

For his part, Aramis wasn't sure that his lungs were working anymore.

It was a long time before anyone spoke. When at last Athos did, the words moved against Aramis' neck like living creatures. “This isn't the first time.”

“How many times before?” Aramis replied calmly.

“Just once. Last winter.”

“This bad?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

Athos pressed closer, wriggling, as though finding his adult body too large to fit up against Aramis as he wanted to. As though, if he could, he'd crawl out of his own skin and into his friend's.

Aramis knew that feeling. He held him tighter.

“Voices,” Athos sighed. “Couldn't stand them.”

“Voices?”

“I know they aren't real.”

Aramis and Porthos shared a look of worry above his head.

“Whose voices?” Porthos asked quietly.

“Don't sound so alarmed. I know they're a trick. The mind flounders without the wine to balance it. It produces-- lies. Illusions.”

“You heard them the first time?” Aramis murmured. Athos nodded. “What did you do?”

Silence.

“What did you do, _mon frère_? Is that why you drank again? To turn them away?”

“Eventually.”

“What did you do, Athos?” Aramis' heart was pounding. “You can tell us. Please.”

“I knew they weren't real. But I couldn't stand them--”

“Athos--”

“I put my pistol in my mouth,” Athos said. “And I tried to pull the trigger.”

*

A greyness had descended over Aramis' mind, dulling sight and sound and thought. Athos had sat up a bit now. But Aramis felt the emptiness of his arms with nothing short of panic, and reached out to keep a hand on his friend's back.

Athos had drawn the blanket around himself like a shield.

“You can hear 'em now?” Porthos asked softly. Athos nodded.

The room spun in ugly pulses as Aramis looked helplessly over at Porthos, whose face was frozen in an image of despair. One of them had to ask.

One of them had to.

“Athos,” Aramis murmured. “Do you feel now as you did then?”

The silence was its own answer.

Something crawled its way up out of Aramis' throat, weaker than a sob but more feral than a sigh. He wanted to take Athos back into his lap. He wanted to curl up against Porthos' chest. Aramis did neither of these; instead he wrapped his arms around his belly and tucked his chin down tightly.

“'m gonna say this, 'cause it's all I can think of, yeah?” Porthos' voice was quieter than Aramis had ever heard it, and the tremor running through it was a crack in a mountain. “I would _fucking_ miss you. To th'end of my _fucking_ days.”

Athos folded in on himself then, physically overwhelmed by the declaration. He bowed his head, stooped his back-- but didn't fight it when Porthos pulled him in. Porthos clutched him to his chest with both arms tight around Athos' shoulders; he pressed his lips to Athos' brow and left them there, a kiss he couldn't bear to end.

“It might be better,” Athos whispered.

“It wouldn't,” Aramis heard himself saying, at the same time that Porthos growled, “No no no, you fuckin' hear me?”

“I hear you,” Athos replied, though it didn't seem a concession.

Aramis waited for tears-- from any of them, from all of them. None came. To weep would have been too easy, would have been too palpable a release of the grief that lingered like smoke, sticking in their lungs, swelling in their veins, untouchable.

*

At some point, though Aramis couldn't remember when, he'd lain down. Opening his eyes now, unsure if he'd slept, he found his head against Porthos' thigh and his body curled tightly against Athos' own. Athos' head was still on Porthos' chest; he'd tucked his legs up between his body and Aramis'. His eyes were staring blankly, and Porthos' were staring at Athos.

It felt indecent, but Aramis needed a piss. He debated on how to say as much, until finally he just came out with it.

Unexpectedly, Athos smiled. “You two can let go of me, you know. I'm not going anywhere.”

“Can't fault us for wantin' to keep close today.” Porthos sounded exhausted.

“ _Mon cher ami_ ,” Athos said softly, “I don't fault you at all. But there's no need to burst a bladder over it.”

Porthos snorted. “Fine. Now that we're talkin' about it, I wouldn't mind goin' myself.”

Aramis relieved himself first, then Porthos. Athos insisted that he didn't need to, which drew a frown from both of his friends.

“You haven't been drinkin' any water, have you?” Porthos scolded. When the answer became clear, Porthos drew a cup from the sill and brought it to Athos, helping him steady it when his hands shook. Then they settled back on the bed, Athos still between them.

Without hesitation, Athos turned back to Porthos and pressed against his chest.

Aramis rested a hand on his shoulder. “Are they still there?” he murmured.

“Yes.”

“Then we'll have to be louder. I could-- read? If you wouldn't object?”

Athos turned his face to the side and smiled tiredly. “I don't find comfort in the bible as you do, Aramis.”

“Oh, I didn't mean--” Aramis laughed. “I have your birthday present with me.”

“Oh.” Athos looked a bit stunned. “Yes... thank you.”

Aramis drew the little book from his pocket, settled against the wall, and began to read.

Athos listened with his head against Porthos' shoulder, blinking slow and often, sniffling now and again. It was, by all accounts, like reading to a fretful child. The man-- who was the best swordsman in Paris, who was a favored member of the King's own guard, and who had more lines about his eyes than many twice his age-- should not have been able to melt away like this, to become such a young and fragile thing. But melt he did, slipping away from wakefulness, slipping away from sorrow.

Aramis heard his own voice growing hoarse, but kept at it. He had begun, naturally, with the poem about the hawthorn; now he was making his way steadily through page after page. He skipped anything overtly maudlin, circled back and reread anything that had earned him half a smile. Porthos was dozing as well now, nose pressed in Athos' hair. Watching them both, so still and unguarded, Aramis could almost let himself believe that this particular saga was drawing to a close. Perhaps they'd all simply fall asleep now. Perhaps they'd wake up in the morning and face the new day together, walk and walk until these events faded from conscious memory.

Then, as Aramis paused to find the next poem, Athos opened his eyes. He looked at Aramis for a moment or two, then sighed. “I was afraid.”

Aramis cleared his throat dryly, then asked, “what do you mean?”

“I didn't have enough time. To ease myself out of it. I was afraid. Couldn't wait.”

Aramis closed the book calmly. “What were you afraid of?”

Athos shook his head. “Destroying it.”

“Destroying?”

“Destroying this. Us. Making a mess of it.”

Aramis' stomach clenched.

“After the other night,” Athos added, voice painfully small, “I knew I had to stop for good.”

Porthos' eyes were open now, though he hadn't moved, simply staring at Aramis over the top of Athos' head. Aramis waited to see judgment in his expression. None came.

“I'd like to think we're stronger than that,” Aramis replied, carefully. “You should know by now, I am-- quick to react. Especially in recent months. That doesn't mean I don't-- doesn't mean I don't--”

“Care about you,” Porthos filled in, speaking for the first time in a while. Athos' face shifted at the words, but no real expression ever came.

“We do,” Aramis echoed firmly. “Nothing will change this. Do you believe me?”

Athos rubbed trembling fingers over his face for a long moment before replying. “Yes.”

“So will you have a glass of wine?” Porthos asked. “Do this proper-like?”

“No.”

“You're hurtin' yourself, Athos.”

“I'll be all right.”

“How are you feeling now?” Aramis asked quietly.

“My stomach has calmed,” Athos replied. “But my head still aches. And I can't-- stop-- _shaking_ ,” he spat.

Porthos asked what Aramis would not. “The voices?”

Athos shrugged and glanced away, but not quickly enough to hide the new tears. “I think-- I could sleep now. It may help.”

“Would you like us to stay?” Aramis asked, then winced at the stupidity of even making that a question. It forced Athos to reply, gave him the burden of saying yes or the chance of saying no.

But Porthos, as always, intervened. “I ain't walkin' nowhere,” he declared firmly. “Gonna say a prayer that this bedframe keeps holdin', and then I am goin' t' _sleep_.”

“I don't think I could sleep,” Aramis admitted. “I'll keep reading, shall I?” Porthos nodded.

“Would you--?” Athos began quietly. Aramis nodded. The beautiful leather cover seemed as heavy as a stone as he flipped back to the beloved poem once again.

Porthos leaned back against the wall, pulling Athos to his chest and wrapping a blanket around him. Together, they closed their eyes.

The sunlight was fading from the window; Aramis would need a candle to see by soon, but not just yet. He read. The words held no meaning. He didn't bother to skip around this time, just went straight through, the lines breaking wrong as he recited with no regard to format.

Eventually the pages grew too dark behind the ink, and Aramis lifted his head. Porthos was asleep, but Athos had sat up and was staring into the dusky air.

“I'm here, Athos,” Aramis reminded him, gently. “What do you need?”

“This has happened before.”

“Last winter, yes?”

“This has happened before.” There was a dull quality to Athos' voice. Aramis found his body tensing in response, making itself alert once again.

“ _Mon ami_? Are you feeling worse?”

“I don't-- I don't feel right,” Athos stated, and the emotion behind the words did not really reach them. “It's-- blurry. I can't--”

“Athos?”

“Don't feel right.”

“What's wrong? What doesn't feel right?”

“Please don't leave me.”

“I'm not leaving,” Aramis soothed, more than a little afraid now. “Please tell me what's wrong, _frère_. Is the headache worse? Is it your stomach again?”

Athos looked up at him, and a coldness took Aramis' heart; there was a disconnect in Athos' expression, like he was seeing without really seeing. His pupils swelled. Then his eyes slid lazily to one side.

“Porthos--” Aramis squeaked.

And then the fit began.

*

Clutched by a sudden stiffness, Athos fell back; convulsions took his body, thrashing it to and fro without mercy. His muscles worked, in nothing short of a frenzy, and bloody drool seeped into his beard as his teeth clenched spasmodically on his tongue. His breath came in wheezes, and when Aramis managed to hold his wrist long enough to find a pulse, it felt nearly double a healthy rate.

He'd jumped off the bed in alarm. Porthos, on the other hand, had awoken to find himself pinned beneath Athos' rigid body. “Do I hold him down?” he was shouting. “Do I hold him down? Aramis? Aramis?”

Aramis had no idea, and found himself saying as much before he even realized that he was speaking. “I dunno, I dunno. I dunno, I dunno,” he was gasping, again and again, words as repetitive as the painful, directionless jerks of Athos' arms and legs.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Porthos was panting, and Aramis realizes that he himself is praying ( _ave Maria_ ), under his breath ( _gratia plena_ ) and without even meaning to ( _Dominus tecum_ ). Athos' eyes are half-lidded; his cheeks are a fiery pink and sweat is dripping down his temples, his neck. He looks adrift, violently so, tossed and wrecked by the brokenness of his own body, a ship about to split apart a world away from land, from home--

_Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria-- Sancta Maria--_

_Sancta Maria._

And then it's over.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: discussions of alcohol abuse/dependency; discussions of mental illness

Aramis' knees gave out on him. He dropped down to a crouch, legs shaking, head swimming; leaned his forehead against the mattress and swallowed back a gag.

“Oh--” It was Porthos' voice. “Oh-- _Christ_ \--”

Aramis looked up.

Porthos' eyes were perfect little circles, shining oddly in the dimness.

Aramis teetered and sloshed as he pushed himself to his feet. A familiar, acrid odor was creeping through the room.

“I think--” Aramis croaked. “Eh, I think he's wet himself.”

Porthos said nothing.

And for one agonizing moment, Aramis was sure that Porthos was going to weep, that Porthos was going to break down and relinquish control to him.  _Please don't_ , Aramis willed him silently.  _Please, please don't, brother._

He didn't.

Porthos blinked a few times and nodded curtly, then began to work himself out from under Athos' now-limp body. Gently, he arranged Athos on the bed and then stepped back. He and Aramis locked eyes, and the same urge to vomit that Aramis felt in his stomach was mirrored on Porthos' face.

“He's breathin'. Right? You see that too?” Porthos' was nearly begging, and with his heartbeat thudding in his ears, Aramis reached out and held a hand a small span away from Athos' mouth and nose. The faint humidity that graced his palm was just enough to keep him from losing his mind then and there.

“He's unconscious. But he's breathing.”

Porthos' own breath was nearly a sob. “All right. All right.” He stepped back to the bed and, after a moment's pause, began to strip Athos' clothes away. “Find some rags, 'n' water,” Porthos ordered. “And see if he's got any other clothes.”

“Put him on his side,” Aramis said in reply, as he went to the bureau. Porthos nodded and turned the man carefully. 

Together, they stripped Athos naked and wiped him down. His left knee, Aramis saw for the first time, bore a massive, ugly bruise-- almost certainly the cause of his limp. They dressed him in fresh smallclothes and a clean shirt. Porthos lifted Athos's ragdoll body from the bed so that Aramis could pull away the soiled linens; rather than settle him elsewhere, he stood cradling him until the task was completed.

Athos' locket slipped out from his shirtfront as Porthos put him down; Aramis stepped forward and lifted it gently. “Should we take it off him?” His voice sounded small and thin.

“Nah,” Porthos replied. “I think it gives 'im comfort.”

“I think it makes him sad.”

“Maybe it does both.”

Aramis left the locket where it was, and stepped back. “What happens now?” he asked. He'd always had a knack for understanding the human body. His commanding officers, Treville included, had seen to it that he be trained in sewing wounds, mixing ointments, seeing to ailments, both injury and illness. But he was not a physician. He knew little of the lifetime diseases, little of a dependency such as Athos'.

But Porthos did. He rarely spoke of those he'd known in the Court, but Aramis had a feeling he'd seen such dependency up close and personal.

“Two things could happen,” Porthos replied, picking at a thread on his sleeve.

“What?”

“Well, he could get better, for one. Day or two is the turnin' point, and near as I can figure that's where he is now.”

“Or?”

“Or-- fever.”

“Fever?”

Porthos nodded slowly. All at once, Aramis was aware that the man was shaking.

“Is there anything we can do?”

“Nah. Not really. Just wait, for now.”

“We could clean the place for him,” Aramis suggested, desperate for something to do. Porthos latched onto this visibly.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah, all right.”

They lit some candles. Then, while Porthos carried the dirty linens out to the street to wash, Aramis retrieved the bucket and mop he'd abandoned yesterday-- had it really only been yesterday?-- and set to work cleaning the floor. It was an odious task. For a few minutes, Aramis was so disgusted by dealing with the old vomit that he even forgot to be worried. He mopped what he could. Then he gathered a few wet rags and went to his knees, scrubbing the cracks between the stones.

The forced calm didn't last long. The sight of Athos's high-colored face, the sound of his labored breathing-- would not be ignored, and neither would the imminent possibility of-- well. Fuck.

Athos could die.

Athos could _want_ to die.

Athos, if part of him were still thinking in there, could be giving up the fight. Could be deciding never to wake.

He wouldn't kill himself. But he would choose not to live.

And it was a choice that he never would have had, if Aramis hadn't handed it right to him.

Aramis threw the rags down with a choked-off cry. He rocked back on his heels, covered his face with his good arm, and held his breath, as though keeping that locked up would keep the tears locked up as well. He heard the door open, and the shuffle of knees on floor. Then Porthos was at his side, grabbing him up in a steady embrace.

Breath and tears burst out in one violent instant.

“He can't die,” Aramis sobbed, completely uncaring at the childishness of his words. “Please, Porthos! I didn't mean-- I didn't mean--”

“Hey, hey,” Porthos soothed, “ain't helpin' anyone for you t'work yourself up.”

“Bu' i's _my fault_!” Aramis' whole belly was hitching, in and out, in and out, in time with his lungs and his blood and the pounding in his head as he wept in messy gushes, all over Porthos' jacket.

“Why's it gotta be anyone's fault?” Porthos' voice was tired, but his grip was steady. “He's sick. It's a sickness. Needin' the wine-- you didn't do that to him.”

“Bu' _this_ ,” Aramis hiccuped, “Righ' here. This wouldn't've happened 'f I hadn' pushed him into it.”

“You two always argue. He made the decision.”

Porthos didn't understand. Didn't understand what a menace he was, what a reckless, angry fool. Aramis pushed away and climbed to his feet, hardly deserving of his friend's embrace. He stumbled to the window; there he stopped and hung his head. His eyes and nose were both leaking so profusely that he could no longer tell if it was tears or snot running over his lips, tasting salty on his tongue.

Then Porthos came back to him, pulled him once more to his chest.

Too weak to object any further, Aramis clung to his friend and let it all spill out.

*

“Better?” Porthos rumbled, after a few minutes. Aramis nodded. He wasn't, not really, but he'd stopped weeping at least. For now. He pushed away, fished out a handkerchief, and blew his nose explosively, then scrubbed his face on his sleeve.

Together they finished cleaning the floor. Then Porthos forced Aramis to sit up against the wall for a while; he protested, but his exhaustion showed itself the moment he stopped moving. Porthos ambled around the room a while longer. He disposed of the empty bottles, saw carefully to the broken pieces of glass that were freely dispersed as well. He piled the bookshelf more neatly. Blew the dust from the writer's desk. Though Aramis longed to close his eyes, he kept them open, tracking his friend.

When Porthos was satisfied, he fetched a cup of water and settled himself besides Aramis. “Drink,” he ordered, handing it over.

Aramis blinked down at the water, caught in a moment of sudden clarity. “I'm sorry you have to look after both of us,” he muttered.

Porthos didn't deny it; instead he grunted, “do you see me complainin'?”

“Never, _mon ami_. But you'd have every right.”

Porthos tapped the cup with the pad of his finger. “Stop frettin', and drink. You've blubbed out twice that much already, 'n' I don't want you gettin' dehydrated.”

“Porthos--”

“You've looked after me,” Porthos said, a bit sharply, then eased up and added, “that'll happen again, 'm sure.”

Aramis wanted to say more, but nothing came to mind. Instead he lifted the cup to his lips and drained it obediently. The water soothed his throat but reminded him of the ache in his stomach, and he slipped his fingers beneath his waistband and rubbed at his belly. It had been at least an hour since he'd stopped weeping. But there was a hitch to his lungs that he couldn't shake, and his eyes burned now with dryness just as surely as they'd first burned with tears.

He was falling apart. That was all there was to it. It wasn't a violent sort of thing-- not an explosion, not a shattering-- but a soft, slow rot that crept through his body by tiny spans, and one day would simply prove too much to fight. Aramis felt himself flinching under the thought of that moment, when he simply crumbled away--

Then an arm settled around him. Porthos pulled him in, and the way in which the tension fled his body was so palpable that he nearly moaned. Aramis hid his face against Porthos' neck.

“You're thinkin' too much,” Porthos growled.

“Mm.”

“You wanna tell me?”

“Mm.”

“ _Mm_ , yourself.”

“Don't go,” Aramis pleaded suddenly.

“Where the hell would I go? I'm here. Ain't leavin'.”

“All right.”

“Don't just say _all right_. Fuckin' listen t'me. I'm here, and you're fine. You're fine, Aramis. Hear me?”

The world was settling itself again; his heart was slowing. “Yeah. Yes. I hear you,  _mon ami_ . I'm all right.”

“Yeah?”

“I'm with you,” Aramis said.

*

“This right here is some bad timing,” Porthos sighed, a little while later.

Aramis forced himself up. He had composed himself; he always managed to, with Porthos at his side. “What do you mean?”

“This mess. Taken hostage, gettin' hurt, now all this with 'im... it's like, you seemed like you were feelin' better, is all. Now this.”

“I was. Feeling better, I mean.” Aramis frowned. “The morning after my birthday, I woke up and you were there. And Athos was there. And I remember thinking-- thank God I'm alive. Just, thank God.”

“You don't feel that way now?” Porthos' voice was steady but when Aramis peeked at his face he found an expression honestly _painful_ in its sadness. Aramis ran a hand through his hair and looked away.

“I wouldn't seek to end it,” Aramis murmured. “Truly, Porthos. And not just because of the Church's teachings, but because I simply don't resent it so terribly. But-- I'm not-- I haven't--”

“You haven't recovered,” Porthos filled in, when Aramis' words abandoned him. Aramis tipped his head in thought.

“You say it like it's a sickness. Do you think I'm sick?”

“I think it is. In a way.”

“You think I'm sick.”

Creases rippled over Porthos' brow. “You say it like that an' it sounds like you're puttin' it on yourself. That's what I'm tellin' you not t'do. I think-- old wounds, bad foods, miasma-- they upset the humours, yeah? I don't know a whole lot more upsettin' than what's happened t'you. You're just-- off balance.”

Aramis snorted. “Like Athos and his wine? You have a charitable heart,  _ami_ .” He drew a slow, steady breath. “We shouldn't even be thinking about me right now. We should be thinking about him.”

“I'm thinkin' 'bout both of you.”

“Are you ever not?”

Porthos sighed. “You give me too much credit.”

“Let's leave it for later.”

“What?”

“Me. Him. All of it. You haven't slept properly in days, Porthos.” Schooling his expression, hiding his fear, Aramis laid a hand on his friend's knotted shoulder. “Lie down and get some rest.”

Porthos didn't argue, merely thought for a moment before taking off his jacket and bunching it up in a ball. Then he settled down on the cold stone floor. He was careful to stay close, and soon his curls brushed against Aramis' knee. Aramis rested a hand at the back of his neck.

And as Porthos drifted off, he kept it there, willing his friend strength. Willing himself strength.

Willing it for them all.

*

It was, as ever, difficult to be alone. And despite the sleeping bodies in the room with him, Aramis was alone indeed. In the silence, his mind wandered through darkness, flirted dangerously with despair. Just how weak was he? Porthos had pulled him back from the edge of this not an hour ago, and here he was again, toes over the precipice.

He had to start standing on his own two feet. Had to. Porthos couldn't go on carrying both of them forever, and Athos needed him more than Aramis did. If he kept going this way-- if he didn't reign it in-- he'd condemn all three of them. Was there a sin more terrible than that? Than betraying his brothers in that way? Throughout the garrison, a name, a collective title had begun to spread-- _les_ _Ins_ _é_ _parables_ \-- but they only thing uniting them now was sorrow. Sorrow, and ignorance, and helplessness.

 _Les_ _Ins_ _é_ _parables._ Wailing babes with no guardian in sight.

Aramis would bring them all down. He'd take them all with him. And the only other option in sight was to let them walk away, to let them abandon him, and though it might have been the lesser of two evils he just didn't think he had the strength for that. Not for being left again. Not so soon. Not if he had any choice about it.

A noise interrupted his bitter musings. Aramis jerked his head up from his chest and glanced down at Porthos, who was still sleeping peacefully. But that meant--

“Athos!”

The man was struggling to erect himself, and Aramis stumbled to his side, pressing him back down. “Don't strain yourself, _ami_!” Aramis cried, joyous tears coming hard and fast to his eyes. “Athos! I'm here with you!”

“Of course you are,” Athos grumbled, and pushed himself up despite Aramis' protestations. “Porthos?”

“He's here! He's sleeping like the dead, though,” Aramis laughed, unable to take his hands from Athos' arms, although he was no longer restraining him. “Do you want some water?”

“No.”

“What do you remember?”

“No.”

“Athos-- we thought--”

“Leave.”

His breath caught. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Aramis' stomach tightened. “Athos-- _ami_ \-- I only mean to help--”

“If you wish to assist me, wake Porthos on your way out. But go. Now, Aramis.”

The tears falling now were no longer tears of happiness, but cold tears of hurt and confusion. When would this ever stop? When would his friends ever stop leaving him? “Athos-- please-- I want to--”

“To help me?” Athos laughed, mockingly. “You can't even help yourself, __René__. What are you going to do? Tell me how to keep the sadness away? Tell me how to keep pressing on, when you can't even take a shit without Porthos to clean your ass for you?”

Aramis couldn't respond, hands over his mouth as he struggled to keep himself from sobbing aloud.

“Do us all a favor,” Athos spat. “Saddle up your horse, ride back out to the border, and die in the forest like you were supposed to.”

“He's right, you know.” Porthos' words were sharp, but Aramis had to fight not to feel a pathetic little wave of comfort at the mere fact of his voice. “Never shoulda taken you outta there. Shoulda left you, saved us all the trouble. All the whinin'--”

\--Aramis sank to his knees--

“--all the tears--”

\--his hands hit the floor--

“--all the _fucking_ stomachaches--”

\--cowering now, face to the stone--

“--like he's the only one in the world's got anythin' to worry 'bout--”

\--thick fingers, grabbing his arms like twigs--

“--like I'm his personal goddamn wetnurse--”

“-- _oh my God_ ,” Aramis sniveled, screwing his eyes shut. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry--”

“Aramis!”

“Please, I'm sorry, please don't--”

“ _Aramis_!”

With a shock like a musket firing, Aramis realized that he was back against the wall-- though Porthos' hands were still upon him. Trembling, terrified, he scuttled away from him, making it only a tiny span before his bad arm gave out beneath him and he fell to the floor.

“Aramis, it's me! Goddamn it, man-- it's Porthos! Why in'th'hell are you lookin' at me like that?”

His heart was racing. Aramis shook his head.

“You were dreamin'! Whatever it was, it was just a damn dream!”

Porthos' fingertips found his knee and Aramis twisted away with a cry.

“Christ!” Porthos pulled back, raising his hands up in surrender. “Not touchin' you. Not touchin' you. Do you know who I am? Do you know where you are?”

And all at once, it registered.

It hadn't been real.

It hadn't been real.

_It hadn't--_

Porthos crept forwards. “I won't hurt you. I swear it. Can I touch you, _mon ami_? Would that be all right? Aramis? Aramis?”

Aramis said nothing, but crawled into Porthos' embrace; Porthos' body shielded his, chin atop his head, arms around his torso, legs against his legs. Aramis gasped and gasped. He filled his lungs the the desperation of a man filling a broken water skin, and Porthos' voice wasn't quite enough to convince him that he was actually taking in air.

But Porthos' hand on his chest-- that was.

“ _Shh_ , _shh_ ,” he crooned, pressing firmly. “You're breathin'. You're breathin', Aramis. Y'don't need t'try so hard.”

Little by little Aramis' muscles undid, until in one sudden moment he simply _sagged_. Porthos braced him easily. Tendrils of the nightmare lingered at the edges of his consciousness; he hid his face against Porthos' neck and waited for them to fade away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't believe the next chapter will be the last! I'd really like to make this series a trilogy, but I'm shaky on the plot of the third story. In any case. Apologies for the Athos-less chapter. The next one will not be so!


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: discussion of mental illness, mentions of suicide

Neither of them spoke for a while. Finally Porthos breathed deeply and said, “you've come outta your sling.”

“Mm?”

“Your sling. You've taken your arm outta it.”

“Oh.” Aramis glanced down; he had indeed.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not really.”

“Here.” Pulling back just enough to allow his motions, Porthos maneuvered Aramis' arm back into position. His hands, though they got the job done, were less than steady.

Only by the grace of God did Aramis have enough willpower to shift himself out of Porthos' lap and back against the wall. “How long did you sleep before I woke you?” he asked. The candles, he noted belatedly, had gone out.

“Dunno. Few hours.”

“I have no idea what time it is,” Aramis realized aloud.

“Mm. No clock.”

“I know what to get him for his birthday, then.” The hope in his words did not reach his heart.

This must have shown on his face, because Porthos sucked in a deep breath. “Aramis--”

“What happens if he doesn't wake up?”

“He'll wake up.”

“What if he doesn't?”

Porthos ran a hand down his face and stood. “What do you want me t'say?” he asked, and it sounded so much like pleading that Aramis berated himself immediately.

“Nothing. I apologize.” He went to where Porthos had settled himself, standing at Athos' side in what might have been a battle stance had it not been so loose and lopsided. Aramis was unsure of his welcome as he touched a hand lightly to Porthos' arm. But Porthos merely offered a weak smile and bowed his head, angling it a little bit in Aramis' direction. “He'll be all right,” Aramis soothed, trying with all his being to _mean_ it.

“He'd fuckin' better be.” Porthos' voice was a whisper; Aramis suspected it would crack if he brought it up any louder. They fell silent.

“The sun's coming up,” Aramis murmured, after a minute or two of wordless vigil. “Who needs a clock?”

Porthos smiled sadly, but said nothing.

“Pray with me,” Aramis told him quietly. It was not a request; it was not for his sake, but for Porthos' own. Porthos nodded. Aramis pulled the rosary from his pocket and placed it carefully in the fingers of his left hand, leaving his good arm free to wrap around Porthos' shoulders. And they prayed. Aramis made no comment when Porthos stumbled over the words, skipped some bits entirely. He kept on stubbornly, though he didn't lose himself. Porthos leaned gradually more and more into him; eventually he stopped speaking altogether and let Aramis' voice go on unaccompanied.

Outside the window, the sun continued to rise. Inside Aramis felt nearly in a trance, aware of nothing save the prayers on his lips and the beads in his hand, and Porthos still and silent at his side.

The first time he heard the sound, he didn't believe it.

“Aramis,” Porthos murmured.

The second time he heard the sound, he still didn't believe it.

“ _Aramis_.”

The third time he heard the sound, sick with painful hope, Aramis forced himself to look down at the bed where Athos was stirring gently.

And then--

Athos opened his eyes.

He looked up at both of them, and grunted in greeting.

Tears flooded down Porthos' cheeks. “Fuckin' Christ,” he huffed, pressing the heel of one hand to his forehead.

“Thank you, Lord,” Aramis panted; every muscle in his body had relaxed in an instant. “You frightened us, _frère_ ,” he scolded weakly, and Porthos could do nothing but nod his agreement. Aramis rubbed his back while he heaved a couple of shuddering breaths.

“My-- apologies.” Athos' voice was raw, barely more than a whisper. “Could I-- mm-- water?” Porthos nearly stumbled in his rush to go and get it, leaving Aramis to crouch down at Athos' side.

Athos lips curved up gently as Aramis' fingers found his cheek. Aramis said nothing, just stroked along the side of his face; then, reflexively, made the sign of the cross at his forehead.

Porthos arrived then, cupped a hand beneath Athos' skull as he sipped the water. When Athos was finished drinking, Porthos bent forward and pressed their foreheads together; Aramis rested his own cheek on Athos' chest and felt Porthos' hand slip into his. Then Athos' fingers threaded into his hair.

They stayed that way, the three of them, for one long moment.

“You should sleep,” Aramis said at last, pulling back. “Your body is still weak.”

“Actually, I think that I'm more hungry than tired,” Athos admitted. “And I'd like-- to wash?”

It was probably the first time Athos had asked them for something that wasn't absolutely necessary, and Aramis smiled. (Although, he amended, food was indeed important. And Athos sort of stank.)

“Breakfast first, eh?” Porthos was grinning, though his cheeks were still wet with tears both old and new. “Guessin' you don't have anything in?”

“Not on the best of days,” Athos replied.

Porthos scrubbed his hand over his face. “Right. Market's should be openin' up by now. Back soon.” After a long, open look at Athos, Porthos pushed himself to his feet and left.

Athos watched until the door closed. Then he began to struggle upright once more; Aramis protested only briefly before helping him up instead. Once Athos was sitting up against the wall, Aramis joined him. It was a greater comfort than he could put into words: the sight of Athos' eyes open; the sound of his calm breathing; the healthy, un-fevered warmth that seeped through their sleeves where their arms touched.

He wanted to say  _welcome back_ . Wanted to say  _never leave again_ . Wanted to say  _thank you_ . To Athos. To God.

Instead Aramis closed his eyes and breathed out: “fuck.”

There was a short pause. Then Athos drawled, “I concur.”

“This is how this all started, you know. You and me, against a wall.”

“Other way round this time,” Athos remarked. “I shall endeavor not to incapacitate your dominant arm.”

Aramis blinked down at their bodies, side-by-side. It was true he'd instinctively put himself at Athos' left, so that his good arm was the one between them. “How about we never talk about that again?” he offered, tightly. “We've both caused each other harm and-- and neither of us meant it. In fact I suspect we were both trying to protect the other. So let's leave it at that.”

“Still-- I hurt you. I fought without regard to our arms being bound. And I didn't-- _notice_.”

“Worse was what came after.”

Athos hung his head. “Then I have hurt you doubly.”

“No-- God-- Athos,” Aramis growled. “I was being-- sensitive. I haven't-- been myself, these months. These past few months. God, I wish you could have known me before-- properly, I mean.” He sighed. “Porthos says it's a sickness. He says the same of you and your wine. But I've never known a sickness so long as this. So long I-- despair of ever recovering.”

When Athos spoke, his voice was small and fragile. “I wish you could have known me as well. I was once a happy man, if you can believe it.”

“When you were with her?”

Athos said nothing, but drew his arms around his belly.

“Seems to me you're afraid of hurting someone,” Aramis said slowly. “Me, I'm afraid of being hurt. I believe they're equally paralyzing. But-- with us, between us, Athos, let's-- try to relax. You won't hurt me. I know that.”

“You don't know that, Aramis,” Athos murmured. “You don't know me. Not really. There are things about me--”

“What's your favorite color?

“Excuse me?”

“What's your favorite color?” Aramis repeated. “You never did tell me.”

“Eh-- yellow.”

“Yellow? _Yellow_?” Aramis smiled. “Really? Not black? Or grey? Blue?”

“My favorite color is yellow,” Athos said stiffly. “I despise blue.”

“Well then, I'm sorry for all the times I've said your cloak brings out the blue in your eyes.”

Athos' expression softened. Encouraged, Aramis leaned in closer, scrutinizing his friend's tired eyes. “Actually, there's bits of yellow too, if you look hard enough. 'round the center, there. Kind of golden.”

“You're ridiculous.”

Taking advantage of their proximity, Aramis landed a messy kiss on Athos' forehead before pulling back. “I've been told. And what's your favorite tree?”

Athos leaned in a little, though he looked away. “I honestly like them all.”

“There you are,” Aramis murmured fondly. “Athos, I know you. Perhaps I don't know your past, but I don't need to. It isn't the same thing.”

For a moment, Athos' expression suggested that he would press the issue further-- but he did not. Instead he let his head drop lower, ever closer to Aramis' shoulder.

Aramis stared down at his feet for a while as his good humor slipped away in favor of solemnity once more. “Do you ever think we might never recover?” he asked.

Athos nodded-- easily, as though he'd been asked if Paris were in France. “I think that fairly often.”

Aramis bit his lip, breathed in and out through his half-closed mouth. “So do I.”

A pause.

“Aramis?”

“Mm?”

“Do you ever think-- that we might?”

Aramis sucked in another breath, and somehow this one went deeper than the last had. Filled more of his body. Reached his fingers and toes.

“Yeah. Sometimes I think we might. When I'm with Porthos. When I'm with you.”

“I hope you're right.”

There was a pause. Aramis toyed with the cross around his neck, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Athos doing the same with his locket.

“You should know, Athos,” Aramis sighed, when he trusted his voice to remain level, “that even if you don't-- even if you never do recover-- I won't leave you. And neither will Porthos. I mean,” he added, “I may storm out occasionally. But never for good.”

There was a sudden movement; Aramis looked over in time for Athos to bow his head, pressing a hand to his brow.

Aramis pushed their shoulders together as Athos took an unsteady breath. “I'm sorry,” he murmured. He hadn't wanted to leave this unsaid, but it hadn't been his intention to upset his friend. Quite enough of that had happened already.

But when Athos raised his head, he was smiling despite the dampness in his eyes. “That's-- good to hear.”

“I hope you would have known it anyway.”

“You know that I need to be reminded.”

“Well, if I ever forget to remind you, remind me to.”

The smile on Athos' lips grew; it spread across his face, dimpling his cheeks, illuminating his shining eyes. “Of course,” he replied, then sobered. “I hope you know the same,” he continued quietly. “I will never abandon you. No matter how the pieces fall. This I swear to you.”

Aramis wanted to close his eyes at the sound of those words, wanted to fall asleep with their comfort wrapped around him. Instead he pressed on, as he knew he must. “Then you must live,” he said simply, staring straight at Athos, into the deep, pale oceans of his tear-filled eyes. “To die would be to abandon me as well.”

“Aramis--”

“No, Athos, listen-- I-- I wish you could have seen it.” Aramis was surprised to find his own voice steady, his own eyes dry. “I mean, it would have broken your fucking heart, but you should have seen it.”

“Seen what?”

“Us. After you had your fit. Thinking of a future in which you didn't wake up. I was-- well. And the only reason Porthos kept himself together, I think, was to look after me. If those demons come back to your head, if you want to leave-- please know, you have brothers who need you to stay.”

Emotions churned across Athos' face, one after another: gratitude then guilt then affection then anguish; tears quivered on his eyelashes. Aramis wrapped his good arm around him. “It's all right,” he soothed. “Let it come,  _frère_ .” 

And at last, Athos' tears spilled over. He pursed his lips and shut his eyes; still the tears came freely, splashing onto his shirt, into his lap. “Let it come,”Aramis whispered again, as Athos' chin began to buckle. “You'll feel better when you're finished, I swear to you.”

Athos said nothing, but rested his head against Aramis' shoulder.

And then, softly but not silently, slowly but not gently, he wept.

*

It was a solid ten minutes before Athos finally pulled away. His eyes and nose were swollen and stained the same uneven pink, and his cheek bore a line from the hem of Aramis' collar; despite all this, he seemed calm. He passed a sleeve over his face. Then he sniffed quietly, coughed a bit, and sat back against the wall.

“Do you think me a coward?” he asked, after a moment.

“No.”

“Not for wanting to-- end my own life?”

“No,” Aramis repeated.

“Do you think me a sinner?”

“God alone can say.”

“Indeed.”

Aramis wanted to say more; wanted to know more. Wanted to ask what Athos had been thinking when he put the gun between his lips; wanted to ask what he had been thinking when he took it back out again, unspent.

But Athos had stretched himself far enough already. These were questions for another day. Instead, it came to Aramis' mind that he had never given Athos his new scarf; he dug into his pocket and produced it with a smile that wobbled nervously on his lips.

“Yours was a bit-- eh, it didn't hold up well, being my sling. I'm afraid this one isn't new, and it's not as fine as the other but-- it's yours. If you'd like it.”

Athos had accepted the scarf, but said nothing. He simply stared down at it, lips together.

“My mother made it,” Aramis continued. His smiled had died away now. “When I left to join the army. You don't have to wear it, if you don't--”

“You're giving this to me?” Athos' voice put an abrupt stop to all of the worry inside of Aramis; it was soft, nearly timid, and thickened by an audible lump in his throat.

“Yes.”

“Truly?”

“Well-- a neck such as mine is far too glorious to hide,” Aramis teased.

For a moment, Aramis was sure that Athos would weep again; instead he reverently fastened his new scarf around his neck. It hung there as if it always had. He smiled shyly as he looked up at Aramis for approval.

“Suits you,” Aramis assured him.

And then Athos' arms were around his waist, embracing him tightly; Aramis grinned and hugged him back.

It was then that Porthos burst back into the apartment, a loaf of sweet bread in one hand and a sack of berries in the other. He glanced between them. Then he pushed his lips out in a pout and spread his arms openly wordlessly.

Athos blushed, but Aramis chuckled as the two of them let go. “Didn't mean to start without you, _mon ami_ ,” he called. “But we couldn't contain ourselves.”

Porthos smiled, and came to settle himself on the bed at Athos' side. “C'n I--?”

But rather than allow Porthos to pull him in, Athos pulled in Porthos, letting his friend's head rest heavily atop his own. Porthos' eyes slipped shut. He sank into the embrace and breathed-- visibly, carefully, _painfully_ reassuring himself of Athos' presence.

Aramis got up, moved to Porthos' other side. He draped himself against Porthos' back like a blanket, so that their stalwart defender was now the one protected on all fronts. Porthos sighed deeply. He nuzzled his face against Athos' messy mop of hair and wrapped his arms around his shoulders.

Then Athos' stomach announced its hunger, loudly. Porthos sat back with a chuckle, and Aramis found himself laughing as well-- Athos was smiling, looking composed and at ease and only slightly embarrassed.

“Right. Food,” Porthos said cheerfully, plopping the fruit on the blanket before breaking the bread in three. Aramis accepted his portion and bit into it with a noise of relief. He was ravenous, and hadn't noticed until the moment that the flaky crust broke between his teeth.

Athos was eating as well, though a bit more slowly. He finished his bread and a handful of berries, then sank back against the wall with a look of sudden exhaustion.

“Bath?” Porthos prompted questioningly.

“Mm.” Athos' eyelashes fluttered with the threat of sleep

“Bath later,” Aramis suggested.

“Yes,” Athos agreed. “I think I'm a bit of a drowning risk at the moment.”

“We wouldn't let that happen,” Aramis replied immediately.

Athos opened his eyes with an expression that was a bit touched, but also openly amused. “Just so I can prepare myself,” he drawled, “are we going to be taking everything that I say very seriously from now on?”

Porthos chuckled. “Won't last,” he assured him. “We'll be back pokin' fun at you before the week is out, on my honor.”

“But-- grant us one last indulgence?” Aramis ventured.

“Yes?”

“Let us stay while you sleep. Just this one time more.”

Athos hummed with drowsy consent, and brought his hand up to his neck. Aramis expected him to seize his locket, as was his habit; instead he rubbed absently at his scarf. “I suppose.”

Porthos scooped up the remaining fruit from the bed and relocated it to Athos' desk; once the bed was clear, Athos curled up tightly at the center of it. He could have just been soothing himself. But Aramis chose to take it as an invitation, and when he clamored back up in the empty space of the bed, his bent knee just at Athos' head, the man did not complain. Aramis glanced up at Porthos, who shrugged and took the other side.

The book of poetry had fallen to the floor at some point; now Porthos retrieved it, examined it. “What's with you two an' that one poem? With the hawthorn?”

“Athos' favorite poet,” Aramis replied, after a moment. “My favorite tree.”

Porthos gave a grunt that might have indicated that he understood, or might have indicated the exact opposite. He opened the book to the first page and settled back. Aramis watched him read, absorbing the careful, methodical way in which he seemed to savor every word.

Tucked safely between them, Athos sighed, rubbed his nose, and fell asleep.

*

There was a row of hawthorn trees on one of their typical patrol routes, near the palace. _Crataegus monogyna_ , Athos reminded him, when prompted. Aramis rolled the words around in his mouth; they were a fresh and colorful change from the ecclesiastical Latin that had long since become bland and ordinary to him.

The trees bloomed white for another week or so. When the first wave of true heat hit, the petals browned and withered; the fruit swelled, still green but ripening every day.

It was finally turning red when Athos began to drink again. Not to excess-- well, perhaps to excess, but not as much so as that one particular night-- nevertheless Aramis couldn't help but feel a pang of anxiety the first time he saw Athos nursing a bottle of wine again.

“Every man heals at his own speed,” Porthos grumbled sagely, after they'd seen their drunken brother home for the second night in a row. Autumn had come now. The hawthorn berries were falling, exposing the tree's impressive thorns; Athos had not drank himself to the point of vomiting since the episode in spring, but had certainly ventured beyond full coherency on more than one recent occasion.

Aramis nodded. He thought of his own anxieties, his own nightmares-- certainly still with him, but lessening with the passing seasons-- and tried to take heart. Porthos reached over and rubbed his back briefly.

“ _Now, to life, gentle hawthorn_ ,” Aramis murmured, as Porthos led him from Athos' apartment door. Porthos grunted in disapproval.

“Dunno why the two of you like that one so much. It's one of my least favorites.” Porthos, like the others, had read them all. The little book had somehow become communal property; Aramis wasn't even terribly sure whose possession it was in at the moment, as it had passed through all their hands at least twice now.

“Why?”

“'s not an ode. It's-- threatenin'. _Now, to life-- life without which the thunder would not be able to hurl you to the ground_. I'd like it better if all the life protected the tree. He says it makes it vulnerable.”

“But it does,” Aramis protested softly, glancing back over his shoulder. 

“Oh Lord. You're thinkin' too much again. C'mon,” Porthos grunted, as Aramis began to drag his feet. “We'll see 'im for breakfast.”

Aramis nodded obediently, believing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't believe it's done! At this point I'm not going to be working on any chapter fics until series 2 ends, just to wait and see how the canon plays out. Nevertheless I am working on a short modern AU at the moment and hope to have it posted soon :)
> 
> Thanks very much to everyone who has read and left kudos and comments!


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